


A Courtship Most Foolish

by FreckledSaint



Series: A Year and a Day [2]
Category: Frozen (Disney Movies), Tangled (2010)
Genre: 19th Century, Also you will not understand this fic AT ALL without reading the first part, Alternate Universe, Family Dynamics, Humor, Idiots in Love, In retrospect there is a LOT of marriage talk so I apologize, M/M, Misunderstanding, My own lore, Slow Burn, What can I say tho? I stan marriage plots and weddings in general
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 48,903
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24828568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreckledSaint/pseuds/FreckledSaint
Summary: Klaus Westergaard had, by the virtue of being heir, received an extensive education to prepare him for the throne. He had tutors galore, attended meetings from a young age, learned responsibility and how to maintain fraternal peace, and – above all – respected his parents. As far as he was concerned, it was not the place of any man to unnecessarily challenge his parents.Saying that, however, he cannot help but be concerned by his parents’ most recent scheme.
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider & Stabbington Brothers, Hans/Murphy Stabbington, King of the Southern Isles/Queen of the Southern Isles (Disney)
Series: A Year and a Day [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1795909
Comments: 17
Kudos: 27





	1. Chapter 1

Klaus Westergaard had, by the virtue of being heir, received an extensive education to prepare him for the throne. He had tutors galore, attended meetings from a young age, learned responsibility and how to maintain fraternal peace, and – above all – respected his parents. As far as he was concerned, it was not the place of any man to unnecessarily challenge his parents.

Saying that, however, he cannot help but be concerned by his parents’ most recent scheme. Klaus had hoped, sincerely hoped, that his mother joked when she showed him the addition to the household budget; then he prayed that those Continentals would leave the Isles by the end of January out of spite.

Winter had passed though, and they were still here. And March heralded the arrival of an ever-increasing sense of disappointment and a heated lecture from his first brother.

“The Captain of the Coronan Royal Guards hates Flynn Rider,” cried Jules, pacing from one end of the room to another. “He is – by all accounts – an arrogant, backstabbing, trouble-making kind of man while the other two—”

“Mr. Stabbington and Mr. Murphy Stabbington.”

“Sure, whatever. The lad with two eyes—”

“That would be Mr. Stabbington.”

“ _Mr. Stabbington_ ,” said Jules, annoyed, “is just as guilty as Flynn Rider and his brother has apparently befriended Hans. That alone unnerves me. It is extremely presumptuous of him to think he has a right to our brother’s time. Our Hansel should spend his time with handsome young lords and ladies, not that thief.”

Klaus tapped his fingers against the desk. “Technically speaking, they are former thieves.”

“What makes you think that they gave up their criminal practices?” He continued to pace around the room, which raised the hairs on the crown prince’s neck.

The fury bubbling within his brother was perfectly understandable. Jules had returned home this week to a status quo which had underwent quite a bit of changes since January. Obviously, it did not help at all that he had a fearsome temper.

Unlike the crown prince, whom nature inclined towards domesticity and paperwork, Jules possessed a militaristic character and dedicated his energy to the navy. While Klaus busied himself with the quiet, steady backroom work of governing, his brother spent most of his time out in the open sea.

The logical consequence of a naval career was that Jules typically received familial news last; since he left Konigsburg back in the first week of January, the poor man had no idea of the development.

“I understand your anger,” said Klaus as he rang the bell for a maid, “but I also fear for your health. Shore leaves are for you to rest, not to be furious. Is there anything I can realistically do for you right now? A cup of tea? Would you prefer black or chamomile?”

“You are the heir apparent and the firstborn son. Can you not plant some sense into our parents?”

“It is not my place to judge their will,” said Klaus coolly. “They are not only our dear mama and papa, but also our king and queen.”

The reminder was not well-received: Jules stomped his foot against the parquet flooring and put his hands flat on the table. The snarl of the lip, the furrowed brows, the flushed cheeks, the dagger-straight posture; if Klaus was not intimate with his brother, he would have assumed that the man boiled with rage.

Thankfully, the crown prince knew with whom he dealt and Jules was merely simmering with indignation. “Our father – I know it was not Mother; she is far too sensible—”

“ _Jules_.”

“It is the truth,” he insisted firmly. “Mother would never hire anyone of that background and I swear she tolerates this purely out of her trust in Father. What I cannot understand is why he did what he did. We discussed it in December! We discussed and decided that we will use the services of Captain Dahl and General Nordskov! Two good-humored, patriotic, loyal men.”

“I would not call Captain Dahl good-humored,” remarked Klaus, “but I see your point. Father, nonetheless, changed his mind and thought it would be more prudent to hire…outlaws… because they are more familiar with the weaknesses of defenses. Mr. Rider broke into King Trevor’s castle so surely his advice is worth its salt.”

Jules’ eyes darkened in obvious stifled anger. “I do not see why it should be terribly difficult to break into that idiot’s castle. Equis and Corona have long since fallen from power.” He lowered his voice and murmured, “We could definitely annex Corona into the Kingdom of Southern Isles if we set our minds to it.”

“Next you shall tell me that we ought to seize Arendelle again.”

His brother smirked harshly. “We’d certainly do a much better job of governing it than that recluse.”

As Klaus shook his head and raised his hand to wag his finger, a knock on the door silenced them and a maid entered. Jules sat down, making a visible effort to not display his grouchy disposition – the servants’ hall, after all, was a cesspool of gossip – while Klaus gave his order to the woman: two pots of tea (one black, one chamomile), clover honey, buttered bread, and fried bacon.

The maid curtsied politely and left. He listened for the sound of her footsteps, and spoke once he could no longer hear them. “The food will improve your mood.”

“My mood will be forever improved with General Nordskov as Father’s adviser,” said Jules, sitting down. A regretful expression crossed his face. “Hansel should have served in the navy longer. He would have befriended men of respectable condition and, when he would have returned to the shores, would have fallen in love with a commandant’s daughter or a fellow officer. He’d be too busy to think about those criminals when there are courtships to be offered and accepted.”

Klaus could not help but be amused. His youngest brother an officer’s husband? No, that was impossible. Ever since Hans was a little boy, he was determined to marry well, marry rich. The crown prince had fancied that his little one would take the hand of a brotherless princess, or maybe give his hand to a duke. An officer? A commandant’s daughter? Those really were far-fetched candidates!

“Do you remember Oluf Dalgaard?” asked Jules suddenly.

“I do not,” lied Klaus.

“Oh. I suppose it has been a few years since he was in the capital. He is Lord Dalgaard’s second son. Oluf is russet-haired like his father.”

The voice in Klaus’ head reeled at whatever Jules might say about that scoundrel, and he earnestly tried to his antipathy. “I believe I recall him now. What of him?”

“He has two sisters around Hans’ age: Natalia and Benedikta. The latter is alright; it is Natalia in whom I’m interested.” Jules grabbed the small parcel he had placed on the table when he entered the room a hundred years ago and unfolded it to reveal a miniature portrait of a handsome, blue-eyed girl. “This is her! A most accomplished and good-tempered young lady. You must have seen her at the Winter’s Ball.”

“Why do you have a portrait of Natalia Dalgaard?”

“Oluf asked me to have it set.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really.” The portrait was wrapped up again and Jules raised his brows. “You do not have the right to judge other men for having portraits of their younger siblings. How many likenesses do you have of Harald, Maron, and Hans?”

“Not enough,” was the immediate response. The crown prince will never tire of looking at pictures of his family. More importantly though, the tone in his brother’s voice alarmed him as much as the mention of marriageable Dalgaards. “Are you hoping to attend Hans and Natalia’s nuptials?”

A shrug. “Why not? He will be happier with a mirthful wife. They can host parties together and will raise the merriest bunch of children on the Southern Isles.”

“And,” began Klaus carefully, “this has nothing to do with your desire to have Oluf Dalgaard as a brother-in-law?”

His brother drew a sharp breath and looked away.

The crown prince nodded. “I am sure that Lady Natalia is an excellent young lady, but do remember our brother’s interests lie with men and women alike. Who do you recommend as a bridegroom?”

Jules did not even blink. “Magnus Dalgaard.”

Klaus opened his mouth – ready to reprimand his brother for the strong bias towards a specific House that they should not have – when the maid carried in their order. She hurriedly set the table, poured them tea, and opened the window upon her master’s request.

The maid watched Jules shily and quietly asked if he was accustomed to solid land yet. Her gaze dropped and she colored at the positive response. Her eyes refused to meet them as she curtsied. “May I take my leave, m’lord?”

“You have my permission to go,” said Klaus. He disliked the wolfish grin worn by his brother almost as much as the maid’s blushing face. Once the servant left the room, he whispered, “That was inappropriate.”

“Ah, I can see from whom Harald and Hans learned their sensibilities.”

They ate quietly. Klaus sipped his tea, enjoying the taste of honey on his tongue, and Jules sunk his teeth into the bacon. The tea really did the former good, whose mind raced with the ramifications of Hans being a married man.

Native customs did not require the youngest child to wed or even leave the house. Southern Islanders were inclined to have big families and there were typically large age gaps between the first- and the lastborn. By the time the family’s baby grew into adulthood, their parents and eldest sibling will want help in running the household.

The arrangement suited Klaus. He was sixteen years old when God delivered Hans to them, and he had been very much attached since their first meeting. It would pain him to have his baby quit on him and live with some stranger.

Hans himself took to the tradition well. Of course, he fantasized of marrying as a child but all Southern Islander did that. Matrimony was one of the pillars upon which their culture was built, so it was natural. And his little Hans improved their home tremendously. He kept the palace lively with his sheer presence; he hosted guests, attended to their parents (ran errands, read and penned letters, did secretarial work, etc.), observed court affairs like a hawk, informed everyone of what was down with the youth, and delighted Klaus with all sorts of games.

Hansel was a handsome, clever creature and Klaus felt that he would never be as comfortable as he was at Konigsburg Palace with him and their parents. Certainly not with the Dalgaards or whatever other militaristic family Jules had in mind.

“Mother likes Magnus Dalgaard,” said Jules, almost as if he had heard the crown prince’s thoughts. “She thinks he is a merry boy that would make for a good son-in-law.”

Klaus kept his silence.

“Magnus and Natalia are a lovely pair with good breeding and generous inheritances,” continued Jules. “I see no reason as to why Hans should not be able to supplement what nature has failed to give them and vice versa. It would keep him busy enough to forget about the thief. Don’t you want that, too?”

“I do.” Another cup of chamomile was poured. “And I also know better than to mess with sentimental affairs. Matchmaking is a dangerous business, dear Jules. Many tears are shed during the process.”

His brother nodded ‘thoughtfully’ before bursting into loud guffaws. Warmth satisfaction bloomed in the crown prince’s chest at the glorious sight and he asked what was so amusing.

Wiping the glint of moisture from his eye, he took Klaus’ hand in his own and said he meant no disrespect to professional matchmakers. “I must, however, insist that my profession involves higher stakes. You can trust me to not be a cause of grief to our parents, and I vow to keep my matchmaking to a minimum.” He laughed more. “I must thank you as well for listening to my grievances. Believe me when I say that I am not blind to my general unpleasantness.”

Klaus smiled warmly. “You are a very pleasant man, and I am always happy to listen to my brothers. If the Lord did not want me to listen to them, He would have made me deaf.”

“Or He would not have sent you a dozen little brothers.”

“And be an only child?” The crown prince grimaced. “I would not have it for the world!”

The brothers snickered and Jules – much better disposed than he was in the morning – pulled Klaus into a tight hug. They patted each other’s backs, smiled, and promised to see one another at supper.

“It is good to be home,” said Jules kindly as he passed the threshold, and Klaus could not agree more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am back with more Hans/Murphy! Thank you so much for all the lovely comments on "Love's First Sight on a Cold Winter Night"!!!! They've brought me so much joy and I hope you enjoy this sequel to it 💖💕


	2. Chapter 2

Hans had been absent during supper, which was troubling. He apparently notified Father of his missing supper, and Klaus reminded himself of that as he watched the clock strike quarter past seven.

It was light out. So long as there was light, there was hope that his brother would turn up any second. _He will come,_ he assured himself. _When has he ever failed to come without warning me? He is late, that is all._

Klaus looked down at the book in his hand. Its cover was weathered, the spine twisted, and a dozen different scripts filled its pages in colorful ink. The book was as old as the crown prince; it saw its first conundrums during Mother’s first pregnancy and was yet to see its last. He flipped open to a random page, and snorted at the silly riddle written in dark green ink:

_At what time of day was Adam born? A little before Eve._

A childish riddle, definitely. Judging by its simplicity and the faintness of the ink, it had to be transcribed around a decade ago. He traced it with his thumb and smiled, wondering which brother penned it.

“What are you doing here by yourself?” he heard a voice say by the door.

Klaus turned his head and saw the admiral leaning against the doorframe. His shoulders sagged, but he smiled. “I am waiting for Hans.”

Jules walked inside the room, shut the door, and sat across from him. “Has he not returned yet? It is not like him to be out late or miss appointments. That boy will arrive thirty minutes early than be tardy by five minutes. Is that the book of conundrums?”

“First time for everything, I guess. And yes, it is.”

The book changed hands, and the crown prince leaned back into the armchair. If Jules knew the whole truth – the truth being that Hans had had his head in the clouds for the past few months and denied Klaus his full attention – he might kill the thieves. Perhaps it was the effect of the strong sense of camaraderie cultivated by the navy, but Jules was quicker to sense injuries against his eldest brother than Klaus himself. 

“Oh, I know this charade!” The admiral pointed at a verse written in blue. “The hint is that it is popular amongst sailors!

_May my first never be lost in my second,_

_To prevent me from enjoying my whole._

It is a very good charade! What do you think the answer is?”

“It is a good charade, indeed,” commented Klaus. “Is the answer friendship?”

Jules smiled. “Correct!”

His brother read him a few more charades, and he answered them all correctly. It would be embarrassing if he could not; Klaus had heard every riddle, story, charade, and conundrum transcribed into the book. Despite knowing most of them by heart, it was more fun than turning tea-stained pages in solitude.

Any self-respecting educated man knew the art of rhetoric and Jules read the conundrums in a beautifully clear voice. Military men were required by their profession to have powerful voices, but not every officer had the spirits or charm to give verses life. Listening to his brother mimic characters depicted in charades entertained Klaus so much that he almost forgot the hurt of abandonment.

The funniest conundrums were written in by Albert and Maron; the most relevant by Henrik; and the loveliest by Father right after marriage. It was a mystery how their sensible, rational mother gave her hand and heart to their father, prince or not. And if Father’s charades were this sentimental, he wondered how much emotion was poured into private letters.

At one point, they set aside the conundrums in favor of sharing stories. The elder thought it’d be better to not speak of December’s affairs – the knowledge of which had yet to stop haunting him – and told his brother about domestic affairs: plans of renovation, their extended family’s health, and how their orchards in the country were doing. The younger in return told him of Greenlandic landscapes and Saint Peterburgian ports.

The clock struck eight.

Jules frowned. He turned towards the clock, annoyed. “Where on God’s green earth is he? Father said that Hans excused himself. Why did he do that? Is he even at home? Shall I go get him?”

 _Oh, no, no, no,_ thought Klaus. The choice of words would make a difference, he knew. None of his brothers were stupid and Jules especially had the advantage of being the closest in age to him.

He waved his hand and forced a grin. “Silly me! Hans told me where he was going and I completely forgot! The Ostergaards have recently arrived and they loved to be called on. ‘I think I should go call on them, Klaus’ he said to me the other day. ‘Xenia Ostergaard will take offense if I do not call, and I must put in a kind word for Valentin for they got along so well at the Ball.’ Our brother is so obliging, do you not agree?”

Jules lit up with joy. “The Ostergaards! He is calling on the Ostergaards! What a fine family! Yes, Hans must definitely invest in an acquaintanceship with them!” He fell back onto his seat. “The Ostergaard girls are charming; Hans will like them. But why did he not openly say this to us? Surely, he does not think that we would tease him?”

“Maybe not us, but Albert has been waiting for an opportunity to impose his advice onto him.”

The admiral laughed and his cheeks were a healthy ruddy color. “See, another benefit of Hans serving the navy longer would have been more worldly experience! He learns nothing new or practical beside what is in his books whilst staying with you (no offense) or our parents.”

“I am offended!” said Klaus in a contradictory tone. “Hans learned how to keep orderly accounts under my wing! Mother taught him how to manage a budget, too. These are the most practical skills one could have; it is the basis of running a household.”

“Yes, I know. Hans has one of the most comprehensible account books I’ve ever seen in my life. Household management and social skills notwithstanding, he never got in a duel, never bed a girl or a boy, or gotten black-out drunk.” Klaus frowned and Jules hurriedly said, “And it is very good that he has done nothing of the sorts! He is a good son and brother, warranting little to no beatings. Not that our parents would allow it. You as well. Do not think I forgot how you scolded me when you thought I was being too rough.”

Klaus chuckled. “You must not take offense with me for I think everyone is too rough.”

“It is because God endowed you with an exceedingly compassionate nature. The Southern Isles are lucky that you are the heir and that measles did not kill you.”

The heir in question wrung his hands, recalling the nasty weeks in bed. “I am glad it did not. Honestly, I was more afraid of you hunting me down in vengeance than of measles. Do you still stand by your words?”

“That I do not want the crown? Yes, completely.” Jules crossed his legs and took a gulp of air. He released it, his stare fixed on his senior. “Your position is not an easy one, Kronprins.”

“Neither is yours, Lord Admiral.”

“At least it protected me from the harsh reality of the shaken status quo.” With his eyes closed, the admiral hummed a lullaby. “My soul sings with joy, safe and secure in the knowledge that Hans does not spend as much time with the thief as I have been led to believe. The Ostergaards are much worthier than Mr. Stabbington.”

“Mr. Murphy Stabbington,” corrected Klaus. “Anyway, if you do notice that Hans’ manners towards him are indeed encouraging, will you promise me to not blow it out of proportions? Your temper is…something.”

Jules opened one eye, and his lips curled mischievously. “I promise to try.”

Stifling a laugh, Klaus nodded and thanked his brother. Although he knew Jules will find out sooner rather than later, his disapproval already comforted the crown prince. His brother was a candid man with no qualms about speaking to people directly. Should the worst come to worst and – God forbid – Hans ended up attached to one of them, Jules will be a trusted ally.

It also helped that he generally bore news better than Klaus, whose nerves were constantly on the verge of giving out, and could support him in taxing times.


	3. Chapter 3

Early Sunday mornings were, perhaps, the best part of spring. Hans had full power over his schedule and could do as he liked. There were no errands to run, no letters to read or pen, and no relatives in need of attendance. Sunday evenings were reserved for his father, but until then he was his own master and meant to enjoy every spare moment.

Hans traditionally spent Sundays in the company of his dear friend, Valentin Reenberg. But when March began, his friend received a letter from his father asking for his immediate return. As much as they disliked the separation, they were not in a position to object to their superiors and the young friends parted with a promise of regularly writing to each other.

He missed Val. He missed his company a great deal, but could not say that he was sick with grief. A fortnight had passed since he waved his friend farewell from the harbor and Hans was still busy and cheerful. How could he not be cheerful when Mr. Murphy had his days off on Sundays?

They often met at the Field of Frigg, where the pavilions granted much-needed privacy. It was southeast of Konigsburg Palace and close enough to Mr. Murphy’s new home to not inconvenience the man. The inconveniences came primarily in the form of bad weather and Mr. Murphy’s constant refusal of carriages and horses.

When Hans exited the church to the song of birds and not the beating rain, he laughed with glee. The weather had been cold and wet the past week, and he almost feared that it would stop him from calling on Mr. Murphy. But as the birds were singing and the skies were a brilliant blue, the prince kissed his parents and shook his eldest two brothers’ hands goodbye.

Jules clapped him on the back warmly, and wished him a lovely day. He offered to walk Hans to the stables, laughing when denied. “Ah! To be twenty again! Well, do not forget yourself and I hope you have a pleasant time with your friends!”

“Shall I bring them your regards, Jules?”

“Of course!” Jules ruffled his hair and sent Hans on his merry way. As he walked towards the stables, the prince was confident that he heard a mention of the Ostergaards.

 _They must have settled on spending the spring in Konigsburg,_ thought Hans as he saddled his horse. _I should call on them tomorrow! Xenia Ostergaard will be let down by Valentin’s being away, but she will want to hear about him anyway._

He mused on the subject. The matrons at court were confident that Xenia Ostergaard will be a Reenberg by the end of the year; he thought it was too early to tell. Neither party was too forlorn when forced to part in January. “I think I would be less disposed to daily tasks if the object of my affection left me,” he said. “What do you think? Will someone take my hand and name this year?”

Sitron snorted.

“No, I suppose not,” chuckled Hans. He placed his foot into the stirrup, pushed himself up onto the saddle, and lightly nudged the horse to trot out into the city.

Springtime brought with itself blooming flowers, longer days, and the complete cleaning of homes. Hans could see junior womenservants through the windows, shuffling about as they removed all the dirt and soot collected during winter. Two such servants were pouring out buckets of dirty water down a surface drain. The younger of the pair spotted Hans and curtsied. Her friend turned around and smoothed her skirt, smiling when he waved at her.

The further he rode, the less servants there were to notice. No wonder, really. Mr. Murphy lived on Maalundsgade in a small, unremarkable flat in a small, unremarkable house. Having been inside the building once, Hans knew that it did not get prettier and regretted that his friend lived across the street from a café frequented by students.

The prince, in the hearts of his heart, was sorry that his friend had to suffer the noise of meetings held there. The silver lining to this arrangement was that the students, either too bold or too drunk, occasionally gave Mr. Murphy their silly pamphlets and didn’t have the slightest clue that they would be shown to one of the princes. 

“Hans?”

Both rider and horse perked up at the sound of that voice, and the former smiled at the sight of his friend. “Good morning, Mr. Murphy! How do you do? Are you returning home from church? I see you’ve done some shopping along the way!” He got off Sitron and shook hands with the man. “The weather today is fine; I thought we could go to the Field of Frigg together.”

Mr. Murphy hummed and petted Sitron. The horse snorted happily, and his joy increased when given an apple. While the horse ate away, the man told Hans in a low voice that he was doing alright.

“My brother and Rider are out. Um, would you like some tea?”

The offer was instantly accepted and the horse’s reins tied to the gate. “I will be back soon. Behave yourself, okay? If anyone tries to take you, neigh loudly for me to hear. And if I take too long then just trample them.”

Once he was happy with the knot, Hans scratched Sitron’s ear before following his friend inside.

Mr. Murphy lived in a small room on the top floor. The walls were a stark white save for a few childish drawings hanging above the washstand. A small stuffed wolf sat on the bed, and a pair of knitted socks were drying by the window. “Did Gretka make these for you?”

“Her grandmother did. Gretka demanded a delivery fee though.”

“She needs the money,” said Hans, helping to set the table. “The toyshop near her house acquired a beautiful wooden sword and a fabulous doll that won’t buy themselves. I was more than willing to get them for her, but she insisted I save my money for later.”

“Later?”

The prince laughed. “Gretka is leaving us this autumn to go to the Women’s Institute. Her departure will demand gifts and she knows full well that if she doesn’t ask me for things over the spring and summer then she can request for something extravagant right before she goes. Tell me, did she make you pay for that little wolf as well?”

“No.” Mr. Murphy poured two cups of tea and sat down across Hans. “That’s a house-warming gift.”

“That’s sweet of her! Did she get anything for Mr. Stabbington and Mr. Rider?”

He stopped cutting the apples into slices and smirked. “Seamus got a seashell. Rider a stick.”

“A stick?”

“Mhm. Like from a tree?”

“I know what a stick is, sir.”

Mr. Murphy’s smirk grew into a smile and he mumbled an apology. They drank their tea within a quarter of an hour and left the house. Considering the loveliness of the day, they decided to walk to the Field.

As usual, it was up to Hans to make conversation. He updated Mr. Murphy on Val’s wellbeing and on recent domestic events, mostly about how pleased he was that his second brother had returned from the sea.

“Jules is always sailing somewhere,” he said. “I do not think I have ever been away from home half as much as he was. My parents like having me around. If Father had his way then I would live with him forever.”

Mr. Murphy tilted his head. “Will you?”

“If I never marry, yes.” He chuckled. “And even if I do bind myself to someone, I should hate my spouse if they try to keep me away from my birth family. I have known them longer than anyone else and I refuse to quit them.”

Mr. Murphy shook his head, not disapprovingly. Although there were cool feelings between him and Their Majesties, he never spoke ill of them to Hans (which was more than what Mr. Rider could boast).

Parents and children buzzed around the Field by the time they reached it. The genteel visitors said their helloes to them, and Hans returned the courtesy for himself and Mr. Murphy.

They walked past the statue of Frigg in the middle of the field, where a group of girls fed pigeons. Hans stopped a for a bit to speak with them before letting his friend pull them towards their customary bench. It stood beneath a tall ash tree, hidden from wandering eyes by hedges. Sitron was sent forward to reserve it; the last thing they needed was for it to be taken by another pair. 

With Sitron off to occupy the bench, the prince asked if Mr. Murphy met any people worthy of prolonged acquaintanceship. He frowned slightly at the answer. “But Mrs. Innkeeper lives in Little Equis. You cannot comfortably visit her. Is there truly no one nice on Maalundsgade? I know that young ruffians like to pass through it because of the café, but there has to be a decent neighbor nearby.”

Mr. Murphy was clearly amused. “You are young.”

“Not a ruffian though! Do I talk and act like one to you, Mr. Murphy? And don’t you dare call yourself one,” added Hans, sensing a self-insulting comment. “You are an honestly employed man, which is the farthest thing from a ruffian. I say you’re not and will hear no contradictions. From you or from anyone else.”

The firm order made the man chuckle. He promised not to contradict Hans _today_ , but there were no promises for tomorrow. The prince still accepted his minute triumph, and asked whether or not Mr. Murphy felt like humoring him with a game of charades.


	4. Chapter 4

Hans glared at the green stains on his hand. He always got stains on his hand when using a new pen, and he regretted giving his old one to his nephew. The child somehow snapped the plating in half, rendering it useless. Still, he could tolerate a few stains for the sake of the note – and every good basket needed an elegant note tucked in-between the treats.

It had been a good day, overall. The weather was fair, his parents good-tempered, the servants orderly, and Mr. Murphy a bit more willing to converse. _Baby steps,_ thought Hans as he blew on the ink, _each conversation is livelier than the last; it’s only a matter of a time until we have a proper, full-hearted conversation with equal contribution on both sides._

Mr. Murphy was a silent man, and his silence showed the prince where his eloquence needed improvement. It was an odd experience as Hans usually fought tooth and nail to throw his two cents in family gatherings. Here though, here he was forced to expand his speeches like never before in his life. Even his quiet, demure aunt seemed loud in comparison to his friend.

And the things they discussed together! To hear that Mr. Murphy did whatever he liked as a child was a surprise to him as someone whose life had been carefully mapped out since birth.

His friend in the meantime was slightly unnerved by the reality that while he was ten and stealing bread from enraged bakers, the prince was an unbreeched four-year-old learning his numbers.

Another point of interest was Mr. Murphy’s choice of company. He disliked that his friend did not try to socialize with his new neighbors, preferring to walk to Little Equis and sup with that innkeeper.

Hans was curious about this innkeeper and her establishment. According to Gretka, the plasters slid off the walls and there were roaches running around the creaking floor like tiny devils. There were leaks and broken windows and drunk hooligans; why on earth would his friend spend his evenings there?

When he expressed this to Mr. Murphy, the man offered to take him there under the guise of night. And although Hans was tempted, he had to refuse him. His being in Little Equis in the dark for no official reason would be unsightly and scandalous. It would not just tarnish his shiny reputation and morality, but would also infuriate other impoverished districts. Little Equis, unlike Widow’s Row or Gravesend, was inhabited by foreigners or the poorest of the poor shunned by other neighborhoods. His appearance there will imply its precedence over others, and that will add resentment and worsen everything.

“How very difficult everything is,” murmured the young man. He stood up from his writing desk and promptly sat down in front of the basket on the carpet. Before he could place a bottle of wine inside, Hans gently lifted a white cat from it. “Good evening, Miss Stjerne. Is a bed of oranges a cozy place to sleep?”

Stjerne yawned.

“It must be if you like it so much.” The kitchen cat, which had always been round like a ball, was rounder than ever these days. Hans cradled her in his arms like she was a baby and said, “Shameless woman. You have kittens in your belly and we’ve no idea who the father is. How scandalous of you, Stjerne!”

He did not expect a response from her – Stjerne was not a chatty cat – so he blinked in surprise and laughed when she meowed in such an offended manner.

As he petted her belly, Hans apologized for his remarks and congratulated her on motherhood. It had been a few years since the palace’s last batch of kittens, and he always looked forward to naming the litters. _Maybe we can name them after the characters in ‘The Mysteries of Konigsburg’,_ wondered the prince. It’d be lovely to have a piebald tomcat; he would name it Lennart, like the detective.

Two sharp knocks burst his daydreams. Hans swiftly set the cat atop the bed, and smoothed his waistcoat on his way to the door. Turning the key, the door clicked open and in walked Jules.

Hans shut the door and returned to his spot on the carpet. “Pardon the mess, sir. I got carried away with decorating. How do you do?”

The admiral looked down at the ribbons, oranges, biscuits, and wine bottles sprawled around his brother. “I am doing well, thank you. For whom is this lovely basket intended?”

“The Ostergaards,” said Hans, like a liar. The true recipient was Mr. Murphy – who came attached with two additional stomachs to fill – but he did not want to disclose this to his brother.

“The Ostergaards?” repeated Jules, taking off his doeskin boots and joining Hans on the carpet. “Did you not call on them yesterday?”

“They were absent yesterday. Mrs. Larsdatter – their housekeeper – said they were calling on the Dahls.”

Hans snipped the hems of ribbons, and carefully watched his brother. To be frank, he had no idea what the Ostergaards were doing last night. His statements were built entirely on his knowledge of the families’ habits, and Lady Ostergaard always visited Lady Dahl immediately after arriving to the city. They were sisters, and the former tenderly doted on the latter.

His brother’s surprise was curious though. Someone must have lied on Hans’ behalf yesterday when Jules asked for his whereabouts. Although he preferred to deceive people himself, it would be rude to disregard anonymous efforts and he told the admiral that he will call on the dear old count tomorrow.

Jules stared out at the darkening twilight sky through the window, and suddenly said, “I will join you.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Count Ostergaard is an important figure in the east and the head of a family belonging to ancient nobility. He is owed attention on that account alone.”

“But he is a count and you are a grand duke,” protested Hans. “And their house belonging to ancient nobility is irrelevant in this context for we are also an ancient family. The count should call on you first; you are his superior.”

There was momentary pause, then Jules said, “So are you.”

“That is different.”

“Different how?”

“Because I am thirteenth-born.”

Jules rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly. “Hans—”

“This is not a trivial distinction,” said the younger, not willing to be interrupted. “A prince, regardless of birth order, will forever be superior to a count by our laws; but we much acknowledge that a second prince is not comparable to a thirteenth prince in the hierarchy. It is like how you had to marry a foreigner while I have the privilege of choosing a native. What king or emperor will wed his daughter to a lastborn prince?” Hans chuckled. “If _my_ daughter was a princess royal, I would want her to be an empress.”

His brother considered his words, and an ember of hope flared in Hans. If Jules accompanied him, he would have no choice but to give his artfully arranged basket to the Ostergaards. But if he did not, then he could simply bring the count flowers and give the basket to his friend.

“You are correct,” said Jules softly. “But I still wish to accompany you. Let Countess Ostergaard scramble as she hosts two dukes instead of one, especially when the younger might be her son-in-law in the near future.”

“I doubt that.”

Jules smirked. “The Ostergaards are not Dalgaards, I will give you that.”

 _The Dalgaards are not an improvement,_ thought Hans. _The boy – what was his name? Morten? Mogens? Magnus! That one cares too much for the military. And his sisters are something! Benedikta is not a girl of any information while Natalia has been ruined, or so dearest Emil writes to me._

He snickered to himself as he remembered his brother Emil’s letter detailing the rumors surrounding Natalia Dalgaard. News circulated quickly thanks to the improved postal service, and who knew when another scandal might break.

“The Dalgaards will spend the spring in the capital. They arrive in a fortnight.” Glancing at him, Jules firmly added, “We will call on them, too.”

“We? Why should I call on them?” Hans cried out in confusion. “I would not even call on the Ostergaard were it not demanded by propriety, let alone the Dalgaards.”

“Are you not friends with Xenia Ostergaard?”

“We are friends by association. Lady Xenia is encouraging towards Valentin and, before he departed for home, I used to act as chaperone or hovered several paces behind them. What kind of friend would I be if I did not remind his possible wife of his existence? Separation tends to cool affection; I will not allow that to happen.”

Jules’ pale eyes widened, probably thinking what an Ostergaard-Reenberg marital alliance would imply in the grand schemes of things. “What about her sister? Mother said Lady Oline likes you.”

“Everybody likes me.”

The admiral frowned. “Would you please talk clearly?”

“You’re no fun.” Hans beckoned Stjerne to him, and scooped her up to his chest. “I suspect that Oline has laid a claim on me. Frida Stenberg and Anika Rosengaard – the girls Mother would also not mind having as daughters – want nothing to do with her and you could say Oline is too friendly towards me.

“While I welcome the attention, I watch my manners with an eagle’s eye because I have no intention of taking her to wife. It is pure coquettish flattery between us. For amusement’s sake. Anyway, back to the point, I’ve nothing to do with the Dalgaards. The Ostergaards, at the bare minimum, might connect themselves with my best friend so I have to be courteous to them for Valentin. Why should I go see the Dalgaards? We’ve spoken at the Winter’ Ball and that was it.”

“You should and will see them because Captain Oluf is my friend,” said Jules slowly, as if he spoke to a stubborn child. “It has been twelve years since he last saw you, and he is curious to see how you’ve grown.”

Now _that_ caught Hans’ attention. He smiled, and leaned toward his brother. “Your friend is in luck. You know how some people worsen with age? Those whose appearances were fairest on the brink of their first bloom? Well, I am the exact opposite. Grandmama says that each passing year improves my features and personality.”

“That is because you are twenty,” retorted Jules. “You were all legs and no torso at fourteen, not to mention the distressing perfectionist complex plaguing you back then. Appearances and character had no choice but to mend. We shall see how you fare in the third decade of your life. If you are as personable at thirty as you are at twenty, you will have my blessings to be as vain as you want.”

“My appearances and character will never worsen!” declared Hans confidently. “I won’t let them. A bit of arsenic goes a long way, you know?”

An expression of annoyance mixed with disappointment and worry crossed Jules. He brushed a stray lock of auburn hair from his brother’s eyes with a gentle hand and exhaled deeply. “It is a miracle that Klaus did not die yet from your humor. Don’t joke like that around him.”

“Klaus likes my foolishness. I bet it makes him feel young.”

“He’s not old, Hansel,” said Jules with a raised brow. “He is thirty-six, not fifty-six”

“Both of which are on the wrong side of five-and-thirty.” Hans grinned. “You’ve two years left.”

That earned him a smack on the nape of his neck. The admiral muttered about his being a spoiled brat of fortune who should be thrown to the most desolate, most boring naval outpost to be taught respect. Hans, despite knowing that those murmur were threats (and ones Jules had the power to enforce) laughed and rightfully said that that will definitely kill Klaus.

The admiral smacked him again.


	5. Chapter 5

_Perhaps,_ the prince considered, _perhaps Mr. Murphy is right and I really am ‘too’ polite._ A radical idea, but one that he deliberated more and more over the course of the visit. Watching the Ostergaard eat and drink the goodies that he lovingly chose for his friend agitated him, and it took immense self-restraint to not rip the bottle of wine from the Count. His composure required yet more focus when he smelled the goose cooking in the kitchens and listened to the Countess admire the weave of the basket.

So, what did he do? What course of action did Johannes Westergaard take as he watched the wrong people reap the seeds of his hard work meant for another?

Why, His Highness became the living embodiment of an etiquette book. He complimented the girls on their musicality, laughed at the boys’ unfunny jokes, inquired the Countess after the accomplishments of her children, and nodded along to the Count and Jules’ conversation on the merits of a strong navy.

Hans imagined how Mr. Murphy will chuckle – or at least smirk – upon hearing an account of this visit. “Don’t you ever get tired of constantly being polite?” he had asked the prince once.

“No. And propriety is non-negotiable,” the prince had answered. “It is much easier to win the favor of the elite with a smile on one’s face.”

Mr. Murphy had snorted, and raised his hand to cover the smirk. “ _You_ are the elite.”

“And I enjoy my station very much! I must, however, admit that it is frustrating when you want to read books all day but the secretary rushes into your room, yelling how we have twenty – maximum twenty-two – minutes for correspondence. And afterwards we must attend Mother’s speech at the Royal Academy of Sciences, then there is a meeting with all of the guilds in the city – Mother and I almost lost our hearing last November – which is followed by tea at a charity schools for orphaned noble girls. And then—”

“That’s enough,” Mr. Murphy had cut him off. He was quiet for a moment, feeding ducks bits of bread, and softly said, “Take care that you don’t burn out.”

“Oh, I will not! Burning out is not an option.”

He doubted that his friend understood the sentiment, if his wary expression was a any clue. Or he might have thought it was some aristocratic joke that flew over his head. Although their friendship was a few months old, it was still a challenge to read him.

The pianoforte produced a loud, startling sound that snapped Hans back to reality. Cursing himself for zoning out, he quickly joined his brother in applauding the song. Its performer, Oline Ostergaard, smiled at him and slily said, “I do not believe that the Duke of Hirsholmene and Sanna likes my music very much, Mama!”

“Upon my soul!” exclaimed Hans immediately. “I see how you are, Miss Oline! A man must ceaselessly pay you attention or run the risk of being accused of apathy.”

“You are mistaken, Your Highness,” said she warmly. “I merely wish to have you enjoy yourself to the fullest at our house, or else I should hold myself guilty of boring you and your excellent brother. It would unforgivably insolent of me.”

The young woman rose from her seat and curtsied at the company. Her mother kissed her on the cheek; and while another sister began to play a waltz, Oline sat next to Hans and happily spoke of her favorite playwrights.

She was handsome and clever. Her sharp wit and lively manner were pleasing to Hans, and he especially liked how her flaxen curls bounced whenever she shook with laughter. The more he spoke with her, the more he liked her. But he liked her not for himself, but rather his friend. He wondered if maybe she would make a better wife to his friend than her sister. The decision will obviously be left up Valentin, but Hans was quite determined to recommend Oline to him.

Their friendly interactions were of interest to the hosts. Countess Ostergaard prevented her sons and daughters from interrupting their lively chat, and the Count whispered something mischievous to Jules with a broad smile on his face.

When the carriage arrived, the Count and Countess walked the brothers right to the door and most cordially desired for them to come visit as soon as possible. The warmth of their words delighted Hans, who shamelessly liked attention, and he found himself feeling less spiteful. Despite theirs taking and devouring the basket meant for Mr. Murphy, Lady Oline’s conversational abilities entertained him so much that he smiled all the way to the palace.

Jules, too, was satisfied and told his brother to be ready for when they call on the Dalgaards. Since Hans believed that arguing with the admiral would currently do him no service, he dutifully expressed his intrigue at their manners and hoped that he would not shame Jules.

Twelve years had passed. Twelve full years witnessed the little prince flourish from a boy to man – though he would forever be the former in his family’s eyes – and he had a slight concern that he would disappoint the captain.

 _I will not,_ he told himself. _My accomplishments are either equal or superior to those of Magnus and Natalia. Nobody has a more worthy younger brother than Jules. The Dalgaards will like me, no doubt._ His opinion of them did not matter much – the royal family must be well-liked or risk being overthrown; it was his job to compensate for his more socially inept siblings.

Upon returning home, Hans set about writing to his friend a detailed letter describing that occurred during the visit, from the print on the wallpaper to the Miss Oline’s flaxen curls. His friend would – in all likelihood – not find these points very interesting, but he will add them nonetheless. It was the best way to better acquaint Mr. Murphy with his world; and the better acquainted he was, the better he will suite Mother and Father’s tastes and that could potentially be life-saving.

The letter turned out to be very thick. Hans blushed when it did not fit a regular envelope and hoped that his friend will not mind. Most of his close companions (his cousins, his brothers, Valentin, Margarethe, etc.) did not hesitate to tell him to be quiet or that they wanted to talk – which was just the first sentiment packaged nicely.

Mr. Murphy was not like that. Half of their conversations leave the prince with an uneasy feeling that perhaps he rambled or did not let his friend say his piece. But on the other hand, he hated the possibility of implying that Mr. Murphy was not his equal. Granted, they were not equal and there was, in fact, a massive rift between their conditions and births; but he tried to not draw too much attention to it anyway.

Crimson wax bubbled in the spoon and he gently poured it on the envelope. The stamp was ready beside him, and he pressed it onto the pool of red until the wax hardened. As he lifted the stamp, Hans smiled at the raised _J.W._ gleaming in the candlelight.

Certain as he was of the palatial routine, Hans entered his father’s study and placed the letter into the outgoing mailbox on his way to tea, confident that it will reach Maalundsgade by tomorrow afternoon.


	6. Chapter 6

“Cannot comfortably visit me!” laughed the innkeeper. “Goodness, I do wonder how the grand folk are livin’ since their ladies and babes are so sheltered. Tha’ are lucky thy grand folk have their wits about them.” She poured him a mug of beer. “How are thou and thy gentleman these days? Everythin’ well?”

“Aye.” He quaffed half the mug down in two large gulps. “Though he frets over things that never passed my mind.”

The innkeeper, Elsabeth, grinned and munched on a piece of toast. She had been teaching Murphy about the city and its natives over the past few months in exchange for companionship and news on ‘the grand folk’. A nice woman, if a little loud, and he liked her and hers.

“I’ve never seen thy gentleman,” she said, smiling. “But thou told me he looks like th’ queen, an’ tha’ means he must be fair. Does tha' think he’d eve’ come visit my humble inn? It’s not much, but I’d dare say it’s got its own charm. I’ve been savin’ up money for new furniture!”

Murphy listened to Elsa talk about the new chairs she wanted to buy for the upper rooms. Sounded like a topic that might interest Hans, if he could be tempted to venture into the slums. The prince boasted of having good taste and promised to show Murphy royal property where he had a hand in decorating.

“The queen scares me,” he admitted to the innkeeper when she sipped on her tea. It was a strange thing to confess as the queen was, compared to him, a small lady. Not as tiny as his friend next to him, but still not big.

“Good! That means thy head is sound,” said Elsa. “She’s probably not used to idlers – which you sort o’ are – and she must be sensible an’ hard-workin’ sort o’ woman; she’s got thirteen sons an’ a husband. That must drive her mad. I’ve a small family and just look at how they distressed me! My daughter, bless her, drove me up the wall and my husband was used to drinkin’ and beatin’ me.”

“Your husband beat you?”

Elsa nodded. “Times were hard. But he’s dead now, so what does it matter? I’ve children thanks to him. My daughter sailed away to Scotland or Ireland with her lad, leavin’ me to weep and pray for her sake,” she said bitterly, but cheer soon returned to her voice. “My boy though! He’s th’ best lad in Little Equis and Gravesend. He makes me happy, and he can make his mama happier still by findin’ himself a nice, pretty lass and give me grandchildren. A little Gretka of my own!”

He huffed out a breathless laugh. Having met the innkeeper’s son, it was obvious that the worker already had a girl in his heart. _Better him than Rider,_ thought Murphy as he recalled the cruel words their neighborhood bastard said about her back in January. It had been mentioned in passing to the son, and it took both Seamus and Murphy to pry him off Rider before he could beat him to pulp.

“Where was I?” Elsa’s tired eyes lit up and she tugged at her frizzy braid. “Aye, yes, Her Majesty. It’s very good that you’re afeared of her. Th’ grand folk take offense easily, and tha’lt be a dead man if you get cozy. Don’t let me see tha’ hanging from th’ gallows, lad.”

The gallows scared the woman. Apparently – according to Gretka and her grandmother, anyway – the innkeeper lost friends to the rope and had since decided that drowning was more humane. Something about not seeing crows peck out the eyes and laugh at the mourners.

“Won’t see me rotting, don’t worry.”

“Good.” She seemed satisfied. Elsa opened her mouth to talk, but drunkards at the opposite end of the room cried for more beer.

Her inn was… still not great. It improved a little, mostly because Hans’ brother gave her money as an apology on the behalf of the officers. But new chairs or not, it left a lot to be desired. As he watched Elsa somehow carry her weight in beer and gin, a grey spider lowered itself on a thread in front of him.

Watching it dangle mid-air plus hearing a dockworker going at it with a prostitute in a booth settled his mind: Hans would hate this inn. While the mistress of the house would subdue her patrons for the prince – like how she tossed the dockworker and his missus outside now – Murphy had inkling that a man who found faults with palaces will have an infinity of complaints about a ramshackle inn in the slums.

Not that he minded hearing the prince buzzing about this and that. Every visit to the Field of Frigg brought interesting news, be it receiving a funny letter from a cousin or the arrival of Hans’ second brother.

The last time they met, Hans said that his second brother sent his regards. That was suspicious. This brother of his was an admiral, which was enough for Murphy to dislike him. An admiral would be in contact with that pesky captain back in Corona, and Murphy wanted nothing to do with the sunny kingdom anytime soon.

Honestly, he’d be lying if he said he missed the Mainland terribly. Weather was nicer back there, sure. And it was easier to cross borders, to lose officers. The tongue actually sounded normal. Corona’s depressed royals did not watch their lands (or city) with the same keenness shown by this country’s monarchs. Queen Arianna’s most memorable presences were during the lighting of the lanterns and her moving about the city never caused problems for thieves, reserved as she was.

Meanwhile Queen Kristina kept the city on a tight leash and – as he saw it – ran around the country visiting schools and organizations and societies. It was damn near impressive for a woman pushing sixty. Murphy had seen her send officers to arrest scoundrels and harassers she encountered; and he continued to be startled by her refusal to knock on the door.

“This is my house, young man,” she had said sternly after he made the mistake of staring. “And we are in _my_ study. I am under no obligation to knock.”

Unable to argue with that, he pursed his lips and showed her a rough plan of the hatches that need to be replaced.

The Southern Isles were cloudy, and windy, and damp, and mold grew wherever it felt like growing – meaning it grew everywhere – and the fishwives were worse up close, specifically when he wanted to buy cod and the women either laughed or winked at him. The students at the café were noisy, the language was strange as ever, and he had Gretka regularly attempting to extort money from him.

With all that in mind, Murphy believed it to be a fine place. He had exactly two, maybe three if he included Elsabeth’s son, friends here and they were better than all of _the_ _Snuggly Duckling_ combined. His small extortionist alone was worth at least four Riders, and she was nice enough to occasionally give him drawings as presents.

And then there was Hans fussing over him. His complaints amused Murphy, who never tired of reminding the prince that he was not a gentleman and that rain won’t hurt him. Those reminders were met with indignation and Hans Westergaard – Murphy thought to himself more than once – was very pretty when annoyed.

Elsa returned to him with a wicked grin slapped on her face and a burning pipe in hand. “Tha’rt thinkin’ about him.”

He gave her his empty mug and she blew smoke on his face, then offered him the pipe. “Him who?” he asked as she refilled his cup.

“Tha’rt insolent scoundrel.” Froth spilled down the sides of the mug. Elsa clasped her hands together and rested her elbows on the bar. “It’s rude to act like tha’ and I don’t know each other. I spotted thy smilin’ face from all the way over there an’ I knew tha’ was seein’ thy gentleman in thy mind’s eye.”

“He’s not my gentleman. Don’t call him that.”

“Does tha’ mean to say,” exclaimed Elsa with wide open eyes, “that these past months were nothin’ but tomfoolery to thee? Well, thine manners should be less warm then.”

Murphy stared at her, and she tutted. It felt like she was one step from calling him an idiot.

“Tha’ knows nothin’ about anythin’ useful, it seems. You three break into th’ palace like the criminals you are with jewels in arms and air in your heads.” She tapped him on the shoulder and told him to listen carefully. “Manners too warm lead to false hopes. When tha’ smile and make th’ gentleman laugh and blush, tha’ are sayin’ to him – and me, for th’ matter – that a proposal will be made soon. Implications are everythin’, Master Murphy.”

“But you make all the men here smile and laugh.”

“Does tha’ think there are lads linin’ up to take my marriage hand?” She shook her head, stopped, and yelled at someone behind Murphy. “A bunch o’ bad ‘uns here lately,” she grumbled under her breath. “Ne’er mind that! To answer thy question, it’s my job to keep the patrons happy. Easier to make a livin’ when th’ customers are busier merrily drinkin’ than wreckin’ my inn to scrap wood.”

Elsabeth was a good woman, definitely, and shrewd. That was why her assumptions – that Hans and him were more than friends – took him by surprise, and he had half a mind to blame Gretka. That little girl was still upset that they did not ‘kiss correctly’ under the mistletoe and her ramblings must’ve given the innkeeper the wrong idea. Hans was a cherished friend, and that was the end of that.

“I’ll keep your words in mind,” he said to her.

“Aye,” she replied, grinning. “Thou better! Th’ queen’s a good woman, and the king’s gentle. But I doubt their good hearts will be quite so forgivin’ to you if you mistreat their lad.” Elsa took a second huff at the pipe. “If thou had broken my son’s heart – goodness, even my daughter’s, as disobedient as she was – I’d have given you a good hidin’.”

He snorted. “You’d beat me for lesser offenses.”

“Stop slammin’ my doors then,” she snapped. “Tha’rt strong. Be mindful of that, lad. And stop being so friendly to th’ gentleman. Better safe than sorry.”

Murphy just nodded at her, wiping the foam off his mouth. “I’ll be fine,” he assured her. Hans was clever and ambitious. Him finding a royal bride was a question of ‘when’ and not ‘if’, like Elsa implied, and he would not attach himself to Murphy. He was fine, and the innkeeper was overly cautious. “Didn’t lose my head for burgling a palace, did I?”

“Aye,” she sneered. “I suppose not, Master Murphy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright...I based Elsa's accent on the Broad Yorkshire spoken by some characters in "The Secret Garden" by Frances Hodgson Burnett and I apologize for the amount of apostrophes present.


	7. Chapter 7

In the dark hours of the night, the inn was unusually quiet. The last patron had stumbled out twenty minutes ago, which left Murphy alone at the bar. He stabbed the cod in front of him with a fork and watched Elsa dry plates.

There was something special about the inn when it was quiet and empty. Clinks of cutlery in the wash basin, the squeaking of plates, a faint breeze blowing through the cracks in the wall. It was peaceful, for once. Those who paid for the night were shuffling in their rooms upstairs – emerging only to ask their hostess something – while those who tried to get in for another drink were chased off with a broom.

When they had moments to themselves, Elsa prodded him to be more honest about his nonexistent ‘affair’.

Each time he’d either frown or say, “Stop grasping at straws.”

And each time she’d widen her eyes and say, “If I’m graspin’ at straws, tha’rt shoveling it into my inn.”

Murphy frowned and polished the plate with a hard piece of bread. He bit into it and ignored Elsa’s manifesto on the youth today and how he ought to stop seeing Hans. One of the innkeeper’s most charming traits was keeping to herself, making her unusual insistence today annoying. He’d hoped for a quiet evening, not another lecture – he already received an earful from the palatial cook.

The bread took longer to chew than he expected, and just as he was about to wash it down with water Elsa’ son crept through the front door. She immediately forgot all about her disagreements with Murphy, abandoned her rag and plate in favor of her son.

Her son, Arvid, returned the affection and lifted his mother in a tight hug. They were a curious sight – two very different people bound by blood. Elsa the Innkeeper was small and narrow-shouldered; her blonde hair grayed prematurely and she had a wide, curving smile and an aquiline nose. Arvid the Dockworker, on the other hand, had broad sloping shoulders, a barrel chest, a shock of jet-black hair, and a neat button nose.

“Hello, Mother,” said he softly. “Did tha’ have a good day?”

“I did!” She kissed him on the cheek and smoothed his sweater. “I learned that our friend o’er there is a righteous fool. Besides that, th’ day was busy! Drummed up lots o’ business with those sailors returnin’ from whale hunts.”

The innkeeper complained about the foul customers she suffered in the morning, not paying attention to how her son avoided looking at Murphy. Arvid had been avoiding him and his since he dislocated Rider’s shoulder in early February. For some reason, the dockworker was convinced that Murphy was close with Rider despite everything pointing to the opposite.

“Eh, lad,” said Elsa, grinning, “does tha’ want cod an’ roasted eggs? Miss Marthe brought me some at noon; says they are freshly laid.”

Arvid nodded and received another kiss on the cheek. His mother promptly seated him next to Murphy so they could keep each other company before hurrying to the kitchen. Both men pointedly stared at the wall, silent. The arrangement worked for Murphy, and he liked that his companion appreciated the quiet as well.

So it was unnerving when Arvid turned and stared at him. Knowing that the dockworker never initiated conversations, he eventually asked, “Do you… want something?”

There was a long pause.

“I’ll be sailin’ to Jordsand in a few days,” said Arvid quietly.

“Elsa mentioned.”

There was another pregnant pause. Arvid bit his lip and shifted in his seat. “Um, I hate to ask thee, Master Murphy, but could tha’ do me a favor? It’s ‘bout Miss Marthe.”

Murphy huffed. “Did Rider insult her?”

“Ah, it’s nothin’ to do with that lad!” said Arvid, alarmed. He took off his scruffy cap and fiddled with it. “Thou knowest Miss Marthe, right?”

“Mhm.”

“Well,” he glanced at the kitchen door, “does tha’ think thou could look after her an’ her babe while I’m away? I’ll be gone for a few months an’ I’m fearin’ that a bunch o’ bad ‘uns might be harassin’ her in th’ meantime.” Arvid blushed, his face turning a deep shade of red. “Miss Marthe’s a good lass, that’s a fact. She works at th’ factory sewin’ shirts an’ chemises for twelve skillinger a day. Th’ local chaps that ne’er leave th’ docks don’t bother th’ lasses; it’s the lads who’ve been absent for months that concern me. If tha’ could check every now and then that she and her baby are hale an’ doin’ alright, it’d be- well- I’d be grateful, sir.”

Murphy listened, surprised by how much Arvid liked Marthe. Everyone in the area knew that – the dockworker paid her attention, ran errands for her, beat Rider for insulting her, etc. – but he didn’t expect him to be _this_ fond of her.

They would definitely make for a handsome couple though: a shy, burly dockworker and a slight, chatty seamstress. He glanced at Arvid, who still wrung his hat, and shrugged. “Alright.” 

“Thank you!” Nodding stiffly, his gaze locked onto Murphy and he said, “I’ll inform Miss Marthe later, so she’s not spooked when tha’ come knockin’ on her door. Her blood’s been curdlin’ easily e’er since she had th’ baby.”

 _Ah_ , thought Murphy, _the baby._

He didn’t mind children, to be honest. Most did not approach him and those who did, like Gretka, were fine. Babies though – they were a whole ordeal. At least toddlers and grown children talked and could do things; infants just sat there, not doing much of anything and their cries made him uneasy. “The baby. Does it cry a lot?”

Arvid chuckled. “No, not at all. Her name’s Marthe Elisabeth. We, uh, we call her Lissi for short. She’s quiet, like me.”

A yelp came from the kitchen, and Arvid called out for his mother. The innkeeper poked her head from the back and said everything was ‘perfectly well’. She grinned at them good-naturedly and ordered him to knock some sense into Murphy about the gentleman thing.

“Oh,” said the dockworker once his mother disappeared into the kitchen. “tha mun forgive my mother’s boldness. She’s been hungerin’ for a good weddin’, that’s all. Whene’er a royal marries here, th’ poor folk receive bread. We’re fine, really – Miss Marthe’s the one who could do with a loaf.”

For someone who cared an awful lot for Miss Marthe, the dockworker certainly did not do much in the ways of securing her. He’d heard that those two had been seeing each other for a year now, and he bluntly asked if he meant to propose to her soon. 

Arvid looked rather taken aback.

“What if she,” said Murphy, searching for the right words. “What if someone else proposes?”

“They won’t,” answered Arvid flatly. “And I’d have proposed to Miss Marthe already if I could’ve afforded. There’s nowt as ill as bein’ too poor to marry, Master Murphy. Hopin’ this trip to Jordsand will be enough to buy me and Miss proper weddin’ clothes. Th’ fishwives say they believe nowt prosperous comes from a union beginnin’ without prim an’ proper clothes.”

A brief rush of air quietened the lovestruck boy, who turned with large frightened eyes as if he was afraid that his sweetheart was eavesdropping. If she was there, she did a great job of being silent since all they heard were distant cries of drunken sailors.

“I’ll uh,” stammered Arvid as he rose, “I’ll go check on Mother. Does tha’ want anythin’, sir? From th’ kitchen?”

“A beer will do,” said Murphy, raising his hand above a pesky spider running around the table. He squashed it and added, “And a napkin.”

***

There were oranges and tangerines on the table.

Murphy unbuttoned his jacket and tossed it on his bed then reached for a note beside the fruits. The front side was written by Hans – he’d recognize the hand anywhere at this point – saying the palace received an import of oranges; the back was penned by Gretka, who must have delivered them earlier. She asked him to save her one, even drew herself and him eating oranges together. 

He smiled. The girl really had no shame.

With an orange hidden in a drawer of his washstand, he grabbed the rest and walked out into the hallway. His brother lived a step away and his room looked identical to his own save for the lack of drawings and a toy wolf. When he opened the door, he was dismayed to find Rider there too. They were playing a game of Klaberjass and drinking whiskey.

“You’re late,” said Seamus, shuffling the deck for a new game. “How’s the innkeeper?”

“Fine. The son’s going to sail somewhere else for a month.”

“The dislocater of shoulders!” Rider took a swig of whiskey. “Where’s he off to? Corona? Arendelle? _The West Indies_?”

“Jordsand.”

“Oh. I don’t know where or what that is,” he said, trying to wrest the deck from Seamus. “The Queen scolded me today. Said I talk too much and should look at you as an example of good behavior.”

Funny. Her Majesty had scolded him for being too quiet the other day.

Seamus shoved Rider’s hands away and shuffled the deck himself. He glanced up at Murphy and asked, “What’s in the bag?”

“Oranges. Tangerines.”

Rider stopped bothering Seamus and turned his attentions towards Murphy. Rolling his eye, he chucked a few tangerines at him and sat down to cut open an orange. A pleasant smell spread throughout the room as they peeled and cut the fruit together.

His brother distributed cards for himself and Rider. This deck was prettier than their last, which Rider lost in a gamble, and had been bought with their first paycheck. The paper was thick and glossy – nothing like the cheap thin cards sold by riverfront paddlers.

“Where’d you get them?” asked Seamus as he popped a slice into his mouth. “They’re not that widespread this time of year.”

“From the palace.”

“You can just say they’re from Hans.” He placed a card face up on the bed. “It’s good he likes you.” He smirked. “Free food for us. Don’t think anyone else is eating tangerines on this street tonight. If only he could spare a bottle of Constantia wine!”

 _There he goes again,_ thought Murphy as he watched the players pass. His brother, unlike himself, had not taken a liking to the Southern Isles. He tolerated Hans though, thank goodness. The little prince liked to send Murphy fruits and bread and biscuits on a whim – all of which were appreciated by his brother and housemate. Still, the downside of that was those two and especially Seamus saw him mostly as means to get free food.

While Hans redeemed himself through his generosity, Seamus disliked the regular chastisement he received from the queen and her servants alike.

A serious advantage of dishonest trade was complete control of your time – something that was swiftly taken from them as honest workers. None of them dared to risk angering Her Majesty, they weren’t stupid, but the head servants still found issue with everything from their being tardy (by servants’ standards) to the way they behaved in general. That very day the cook had a bone to pick with the state of his shoes: they were too muddy.

Seamus had practically become enemies with the housekeeper, and Rider regularly fought with the butler. They bickered, they argued, they fought… Honestly, the benefits of this arrangement were a steady paycheck and the fact that Seamus and Rider bonded over their dislike of the servants.

Murphy watched their game of Klaberjass, happy whenever his brother scored points. The melding phase took longer than he expected but then he caught the smell of alcohol on their breaths and huffed a chuckle. Tangerines and whiskey and cards – a recipe for the perfect evening.

When Rider beat Seamus for the third time, his brother boredom and suggested they switch over to Gaigel. Murphy could participate, for one, and he was much better at playing Gaigel than Klaberjass.

“I don’t want to play that,” said Rider as he spit an orange seed into a dirty handkerchief. “Let’s play Watten.”

“Watten is for clear heads,” said Murphy, shuffling the deck.

“Our heads are clear!”

“There are whiskey stains on your shirt.”

Rider tilted his head down and sighed deeply at the sight of the stains. “Touché.”

“What about Grasobern?” suggested Seamus. “It’s simple.”

Rider laughed. “I thought you were tired of losing! Gaigel is your game yet I am as good as Grasobern as I am at Klaberjass.” He leaned back onto the pillows. “Prepare to be obliterated, my good partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Klaberjass - a card game played by two people that is popular in German communities; dated back to the first half the 19th century  
> Gaigel - a card game from Wurttemberg, Germany; dated back to the early 19th century  
> Watten - a card game popular in Southern Germanic regions and is described as 'psychologically stressful'  
> Grasobern - a card game popular in Old Bavaria and is relatively easy to play (especially compared to Watten)


	8. Chapter 8

Murphy woke several hours later to a soft knock. Getting up from the floor took a lot of effort, and his head ached when he opened the door to the mistress of the house.

Alongside the rent, they paid for her to sweep their floors and bring them hot water every morning. She was a principled woman – a frown marred her face when she saw Seamus and Rider passed out behind him – and Murphy quickly thanked her for the water and returned to his room.

The stark morning light painted the streets a pale blue. It had drizzled at night and puddles dotted the ground like freckles, reflecting the birds flying up high. Hans had told him spring was the driest season on the Southern Isles and the recent rain was uncommon. “Summers are rainy, autumns are stormy,” the prince had explained with a smile, “and winters are windy. Oh, I cannot wait for it to be July, Mr. Murphy! The days are long and warm and I must take you to see the apple orchards in the country.”

He soon saw the palace, fuzzy in the morning mist, by the riverfront. Judging by the light, it was about quarter to eight. The butler and the housekeeper were already busy allocating tasks to their underlings at this hour.

Every workday started the same: Murphy would enter the palace through the servants’ entrance and go straight to the kitchens where a buxom strawberry-haired maid called Karin served him two fried eggs, a roll of bread, a few slices of ham, and a cup of coffee. Afterwards the cook told him whether the queen wanted to see him. If she did, he headed to her study; if not then he went to the captain of the household guards.

Murphy scuffed the dirt off his shoes on the pavement before the backdoor. Once inside, he continued down the hall and turned left till he reached the kitchens. His foot passed the threshold and, like clockwork, Karin greeted him while the cook stared daggers at his boots.

The eggs were cracked open onto a sizzling pan, and the cook forced him to take off his boots. She set them by the stove to warm at the same time as Karin set a plate in front of him. Breakfast was a quick affair. He ate, he listened to the women talk, he put on his boots, and he headed to the queen’s study.

***

Sitting in the study never failed to make him out of place. He had walked inside five or seven minutes ago and had been sitting quietly across Her Majesty as she wrote letters. The windows were open. Murphy could hear people talking, horses trotting, but the steady scratching of quill against paper drowned everything out.

The queen shushed him when he tried to speak. All Murphy could really do was sit quietly and look around the room. It was a nice study. The walls were blue like the sky and pretty white-and-gold plaster framed them. Paintings covered the wall to his left – hazy landscapes, portraits of family – and upholstered furniture was to his right. A low mahogany table stood between the chairs and sofa. There was a small pink vase with colorful birds and curls painted on its sides.

“It is chinoiserie.”

Murphy turned towards the queen, who still wrote her letters. “What?”

“The vase.” She dipped her quill into the inkpot. “It is done in the chinoiserie style. A birthday present from my father-in-law.” She pointed at a portrait of a stern-looking blond. “That’s him.”

He nodded, and dropped his gaze again onto the papers. The quill scratched against them, and the queen wrote quickly and confidently – something beyond him and his at Maalundsgade.

She set the quill aside and blew gently onto the ink. Then she reached for a stick of wax, cutting a small chunk with a pen knife. “My second son is an admiral,” she said as she dropped the chunk into a spoon. “I showed him the rough drafts of your plan for better locks and he approved, so well done you. My son is hard to please and you’ve managed.”

“Thank you.”

She hummed and lit a candle. “Upon my last meeting with Mr. Stabbington, he mentioned that there was a major flaw in the security of my home. What it was he refused to say because my being a woman made him uncomfortable with the subject.” Bubbles formed and burst in the wax. She picked up the spoon and tipped it over; then she pressed a stamp onto the red pool. “I never took him to be the sort of man to bother filtering his speech in front of the fair sex.”

“Seamus isn’t that coarse,” said Murphy flatly.

The queen smiled. “I do not mean to offend you, Mr. Murphy Stabbington. It was surprising, that’s all. Your brother sounded like a wellborn officer at that moment, you know. Officers and well-born men tend to do that,” she frowned, “though the clumsy give off a condescending air.”

Murphy kept quiet.

With the seals crisp and dry, the queen finally gave him her full attention. “Since your brother could not tell me the security flaw, you will be the one to do that.”

He stared at her blankly. “I thought… Didn’t Rider tell you, Ma’am?”

“Mr. Rider was too concerned with himself to be of any use at our last appointment.” She snorted. “Karl – our butler – informed me of your friend’s propensity for flirtation. I already warned Mr. Rider that if one of my maids came crying to the housekeeper about a baby in her belly, I will force him to marry the girl or support the babe until its adulthood.”

Now _that_ was a punishment worthy of fearing. Rider probably won’t kick up as much of a fuss as other men, orphan that he was, but he still won’t be happy with a kid or a wife saddled onto him by a royal charter.

“Back to the matter at hand,” she said, her voice sweet and airy. “What weakens my palace?”

He stared at the Queen. “The sewers, Ma’am.”

“The sewers?”

Murphy muttered under his breath. This was exactly why his brother weaseled out of this horrid task. Commoners like them called things by their actual names and they thought that was the norm. Steady employment taught them otherwise; not only did the gentlefolk rely on milder terms, the servants themselves used a hundred different euphemisms for manner’s sake.

“Sewers,” he said, louder this time, “form a network under the city. A man can enter the palace through them.” Murphy gave her creased papers with maps and charts scribbled on them. “See?”

The queen took them into her hands, inspecting each as if it were a diamond. Excluding a question here and there, Her Majesty quietly went through each one and scribbled notes in red ink. She asked him why criminals or anyone would ever descend into the sewers.

“A job’s a job,” he said, and she looked at him in disbelief.

“Criminalistic determination is admirable,” said the queen curtly. “You’ve certainly brought up the most overlooked part of the city to my attention. The sewerage needs to be completely renovated so we might as well use the opportunity. You or your colleagues will meet an official from the Ministry of Sanitation and Drinking Water since this task will involve multiple jurisdictions. I should warn you that the Ministry of Sanitation is uptight. The inherent nature of their work forces them to speak of repulsive things and they’ve consequently become the most morally proper of government officials.”

Her Majesty stood up and gathered her papers. “The captain is tardy today due to familial reasons. He ought to arrive in an hour so you are welcome to ask a kitchen maid for tea or coffee.”

Then she walked out of the room.

Murphy stared at the brass door handle before his eye wandered towards the paintings. Standing up, he approached the portrait next to that of the dead king and tilted his head.

It was Hans as a child of about eight or nine years. He was dressed in a sailor suit and there was an over-sized naval cap on his head. Beside him stood a pretty girl wearing a mossy green bonnet. They held hands.

_Knock-knock-knock._

He turned towards the door and saw Hans’ curious face peeking though the crack. Wide eyes darted around the room and he said, “I thought I heard my mother leave. Do you have urgent affairs to attend to right now?”

“No.”

“Perfect!” he clasped his hands together and separated them in a friendly gesture. “I’ve managed to placate the secretary, giving myself a few hours to myself. Would you be willing to join me in the sunroom for a late breakfast? I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to eat today for the secretary all but dragged me to the Royal Academy of Sciences and Letters this morn to meet with the president’s granddaughter.” He lowered his voice and added, “What ought to have been fifteen minutes lengthened into fifty; but the secretary is happy that I’ve been invited to Miss Dam’s debutante ball, so there’s that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chinoiserie - an aesthetic style based on European interpretations of East Asian (primarily Chinese) art that was popular in the 18th century


	9. Chapter 9

The sunroom was naturally a very bright room with large windows and potted plants and lacy curtains hanging straight to the floor. Seagulls and pigeons flew past the room; the river breeze brushed the leaves of the petals like a man stroking his lover’s face, and Hans told Murphy about his morning over apple dumplings and tea.

The prince cut into the food and said, “Mr. Dam made me quite uneasy. There is something about old men which makes them believe they are entitled to give advice to every young man they encounter. I’ve already enough men in my life to tell me what to do and how to do it.”

“What did he have to share?” asked Murphy, not lifting his eye from the roses depicted on the porcelain.

“Every possible life advice,” grumbled Hans. “Alongside a healthy heaping of kind words about the Academy of Sciences peppered with hints for a want of increased funding to the Faculty of Mathematics. Mr. Dam is a mathematician himself and he hasn’t known peace since that Russian gentleman created a new form of geometry. ‘It is absolutely imperative that the Southern Isles do not fall behind!” he tells me,” said Hans mockingly. “We are not falling behind anyone. Why, our very own Ørsted produced almost pure aluminum as the Academy’s chemists never fail to remind me.”

Murphy huffed a dry laugh and said, “Don’t like sciences much, do you?”

“That is not true. I am quite proficient in arithmetic and astronomy. Although admittedly, my best subjects were literature, politics, and rhetoric.”

“Rhetoric?”

“The ability to speak persuasively.” He paused to finish his second dumpling, washing it down with tea. “My tutor proclaimed that men of my situation in life must never be at a loss for words. A snappish individual, but very good at teaching his art.”

While they were talking, Murphy’s gaze happily rested upon the prince. The sun had burst through heavy clouds and colored the room gold. In morning light, Hans’ hair gleamed like varnished mahogany and he chuckled so pleasantly at his own silly jokes.

“Pray tell, Mr. Murphy—”

“Don’t have to call me Mister.”

“I’m afraid that is impossible, sir! It would be inappropriate of me. Though I am your social superior, you are mine in age. Regardless, proper decorum is important in its own right.”

“You called me ‘Murphy’ back in February. Can’t you do that now?”

A delicate pink dusted his face. “I only did that because you were uncooperative,” said Hans, looking out the window. “I don’t know how things are done in your circles, but in mine conversations take at least two people. It is rude to force one party to do all the talking.” He took a sip of tea. “Let us hope I never suffer another fit where I feel like offending you with presumptuous informality.”

“Let us hope you do,” added the former thief. 

Hans rolled his eyes and Murphy fancied that he heard a sigh. “You are the most intolerable man in the world,” said the prince with too much warmth for it to be a scolding. “Well, perhaps you could tell me how you spent your evening last night as compensation.”

“For what?”

“For testing my patience,” said Hans cheerily, “and for teasing me. Bear in mind that I am six years your junior; you should know better.”

“Didn’t you tell the butler you know better the other day?” Murphy rested his elbows on the table, leaning on them. “A man who is what? Thirty years older than you?”

“Why can’t you ever humor me?” complained the prince. “And for your information the butler is thirty-six years my senior and I happened to know better in that particular case. What would he know of popular dances at soirees? Dear Karl usually serves at my parents’ parties, where the guests have minimum three children my age.”

Hard not to smile when Hans goes on one of his fanciful outbursts. There was such a cheer to his smirks, and his eyes gleamed like a cat’s seconds before he was about to say something brash. It was the same in February when the prince called him by his name without any formalities. He had been annoyed with Murphy’s silence and dropped the ‘Mister’, probably hoping to get his attention.

Instead he received a surprised look that he interpreted as genuine offense. Murphy told him he was only startled but Hans did not accept the reassurances.

“I was at Elsa’s,” he said when the prince paused for a drink. “She sends her regards.”

“That’s very kind of her.” Hans grinned, lips parting to reveal teeth. “Please give her my warmest wishes. How is her son?”

Upon hearing that the dockworker was to sail to Jordsand, he lit up and said his mother was from there. His grandparents – the ones who gave him that white cloak – lived further inland and owned property by the sea. The mention of Jordsand intrigued Hans, and he showed earnest interest in the dockworker’s sweetheart.

“She has a child?”

“Mhm.”

“Out of wedlock?”

Murphy shrugged.

“Anyhow, it is respectable of Mr. Arvid to wish to marry her,” said Hans. “What a precocious man he is to postpone marriage till he can afford a wife. Wiser than most men, undoubtedly. Did you know some noblemen,” he lowered his voice, “wed merchant daughters to maintain or boost their wealth? I don’t particularly mind as the merchant class tends to look after their blood while staunch aristocrats do.” He lifted a brow. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sounds like you mind.”

“I assure you I do not.” Hans patted the napkin against his mouth. “I am simply informing you of opinions at court. These sorts of marriages were unthinkable in my parents’ youth – it shows that times are changing. My brother thinks it’ll be good; says fresh blood ought to help decrease interfamilial tensions.”

 _My brother,_ thought Murphy to himself blankly. Clever as he was, Hans had this troublesome habit of talking about his twelve brothers like people knew which one he meant specifically. Occasionally he’d mention their Christian name, but the overwhelming norm was to never clarify the identity.

“A lady friend of mine dislikes noblemen who marry the daughters, sisters of rich merchants,” continued the prince. “In her defense, she heard that horrible rhyme and it settled her mind against gambling men. Alongside those who dishonor the holy binds of matrimony by use their brides’ dowries solely to settle their debts.”

If the rhyme was truly unsavory, there was a good chance Murphy had heard it before. He frequently visited taverns in windows between jobs as a criminal and heard colorful remarks that’d offend any gentlewoman. “What’s the rhyme?” he asked.

“It flustered the poor girl,” said the prince pitifully. “I believe it was something like:

_Und wenn der Bursch auch viel vertut  
Ein reiches Weib macht alles wieder gut._

I sympathize with the men, especially if they’re a younger son. However, they should’ve made sure there were no damsels in the vicinity. My friend possesses an upright mind that instantly disagreed with this sentiment. Though there are rich women – particularly those born to lesser nobility – who will happily marry an impoverished count if it means becoming a countess.” Hans paused; cheeks rosy with unease. He laughed shily and said, “These women are determined, Mr. Murphy, and I fear that if I were born into a situation lower than of my cousins then I’d be like them.”

That was no surprise. He was yet to forget how candidly Hans told him that a kingdom will please him more than anything. That was perhaps the most candid he’d been with Murphy since the little prince liked his turns of phrases and hints and implications in conversation. He used them so frequently that it must be second-nature to him.

“Good to be ambitious,” offered Murphy eventually.

That pleased Hans straightaway. Returning his gaze back onto him, the prince exclaimed, “Exactly! Ambition is what separates men from animals. While some people might be too ambitious, I should think it I will see it as a positive trait.”

The sun hid behind the clouds again before he finished praising ambitions. Eastern winds brushed against the lacy curtains, lifting them up into the air. Hans stood up to tie them with a cord when the door suddenly flew open.

A man of about thirty years heaved and panted at the entrance. He was hollow-cheeked and taut as a rope dressed in stiff dark clothes. Murphy never saw him before, though Hans obviously did as his face fell.

“What is it, Mr. Knudsen?” The man began to speak, but was immediately cut off by Hans saying, “In German, if you will. My friend here does not yet speak Southern Islander.” He glanced at Murphy. “This is my brother’s secretary: Mr. Lars Knudsen. Mr. Knudsen, this is Mr. Murphy Stabbington.”

The secretary stared at Murphy as if offended. Then he shook his head, remembering himself, and turned back to Hans. “Your Highness, you are required.”

“Required by whom or what?”

“There’s been a duel,” said the secretary nervously. “Two young mathematicians quarreled over who was the superior thinker and each now has a bullet in their ribs. Mr. Dam – from the Royal Academy of the Sciences – fainted from the shock of the news.”

Hans snorted. “And I thought mathematics made one rational,” he muttered, hands on his hips. “This is unfortunate. What do you want me to do?”

“It’ll be beneficial for the public image of the family if you visit Mr. Dam.”

“Right now?” An expression that bordered humor and dread appeared on Hans’ face when the secretary nodded. “Goodness gracious, alright. I’ve no gift basket ready so a bottle of wine must suffice. Give me half an hour to change my clothes and have the carriage readied.”

The secretary looked like he was about to argue, but he shut his mouth and left when sharply told to hasten. “I apologize for the scene, Mr. Murphy,” said Hans shortly after. “Mr. Knudsen and I have been snapping at one another the whole morning. We must’ve gotten up on the wrong side of our respective beds today.”

“It’s fine.” And really it was; Murphy liked it better when the little prince was huffy at others than at him. He stole a glimpse at the clock and saw that he was almost expected by the captain. “Got to leave myself, anyway. Hopefully those men are fine.”

“Should they die on me, I am more than willing to shake them back to life,” muttered Hans. “Really, this is nonsense! Dueling to settle on who is the superior thinker? A terrible reason to risk one’s life.”

Murphy, standing next to the prince by the windows, smiled and clapped his back. “What is a good reason to you then, Your Highness?”

“Oh, you mustn’t use my style of address. It is not necessary.”

His smile grew wider. “Which of us said proper decorum is important?”

“You’re shameless!” laughed Hans, closing the windows. “Would you rather I _command_ you to call me by my Christian name?” Gloves were pulled off. “Your lack of respect may be my fault: rather than correcting you, I reward your impudence with oranges and biscuits. Speaking of, did Gretka deliver the fruits to you yesterday? Did you like them?”

“I did.” Murphy thanked him as he opened the door, quietly omitting the part that his brother and neighbor and Gretka all wanted their share. Learning this will just upset Hans, which would benefit no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hans is referring to Nikolai Lobachevsky and Hans Christian Oersted in this chapter!
> 
> "Und wenn der Bursch auch viel vertut ein reiches Weib macht alles wieder gut" translates as "And when a fellow does a lot of wrong, a rich woman/wife will make everything alright again"


	10. Chapter 10

Klaus settled comfortably in his rocking chair and dismissed the manservant with a wave of a hand. Warm weather on the Southern Isles were welcome, especially after their dreary winters, and that particular evening was so fine that he retired to the sunroom after completing the day’s work.

It was a shame that his brother could not join him on the account of that duel. Mr. Dam had thankfully woken, though that still left Hans with two wounded men – one of whom had baronial blood in his veins. Klaus was sure that were it not for the men’s weeping mothers, Hans would’ve gladly returned to the palace and complained to him. The crown prince – used to hearing everyone complain about everything – would listen to him then have him read aloud the daily papers or poetry.

Klaus sighed. _Young men think themselves immortal. They’ll fire guns at one another without considering their untimely deaths,_ he thought. _We ought to criminalize duels on a national level._

Shaking his head, he reclined back onto his chair and took a sip of chamomile tea. He shall think of laws and duels and stupid young men tomorrow; the evening was for him to enjoy himself.

Klaus smiled to himself and reached for _The Art Union Monthly Journal_ lying on the nearby table and flipped to the domestic section of the installment. Dear Henrik wrote to him about an art exhibition recently launched in Eyrar, Lindholm and claimed the works appealed to middle-class sensibilities.

Needless to say, that intrigued the crown prince. He was not an artistic man by any definition of the word – the day his late grandmother released him from drawing lesson was one of the happiest in his life – but he was fond of landscapes and portraits. Constructively criticizing art was, as Henrik said, ‘beyond him’, which just meant he could genuinely praise anyone he like and no one will think him false.

The journal had a lovely format, a delight to Klaus’ eyes after weeks of tedious bureaucratic work. Large fonts, colorful paper, sample sketches were spread throughout two pages to advertise new artists. _I should order art soon; it’s good to support native artists, and I should like new pictures of Mother and Father._

Three artists caught his attention and he was about to circle their contact information when the door swung wide open. Klaus started slightly, pulling up the quilt up to his chest, and dropped his pencil.

“I bring terrible news,” said Jules, closing the entrance with a careless kick of the leg.

Klaus stared at his brother’s stern countenance and felt his heart tighten as it beat against his ribs. “Have the boys succumbed to their wounds?”

Jules paused and raised a brow. “What boys? Do you mean from the duel? They’re fine.”

“Is Lady Skovgaard alright, too? Minister Skovgaard mentioned she caught a terrible chill that she can’t seem to shake off her. Has it worsened?”

His brother stared at him in open astonishment, ghost gray eyes startled and quickly filling with concern. “I forget how skittish you are,” he murmured. “No one has died, Klaus. Please stop looking at me like I’m about to present you the bloody corpse of your firstborn son. The terrible news I speak of concern Hans and that man.” He whipped out an envelope and placed it on the quilt.

The envelope was sealed shut with a button of crimson wax, so for a moment Klaus was unsure whether he ought to open it. _Then_ he saw that his brother had somehow pried it off the paper without breaking it.

“Never have I been more displeased by being correct,” said Jules as Klaus unfolded the letter. “They _are_ intimate. See how Hans begins his letter? ‘My dear, Mr. Murphy’ with a comma following ‘dear’.”

Klaus was quiet as he read the letter. “It could be a punctuation error,” he said upon finishing. 

“A punctuation error? I would’ve entertained that thought if the mistake had occurred later in the text; who misplaces a comma in the salutation?” Jules rolled his shoulders and took a sat in a chair across from his brother. “He concludes the letter with ‘Adieu, my _dearest_ friend’, too. I believe this is intentional.”

The language was pretty, warm, encouraging; however much he disliked it, Klaus feared that Jules might have a point. His soul wouldn’t have been bothered at the friendly or suspicious punctuation ‘errors’ had the message been addressed to Reenbergs or the Lunds – trustworthy families loyal to the crown.

Mr. Murphy Stabbington was, in comparison, an acquaintance of three-four months with no recommendations to his name. There were over a score of reasons to distrust him.

“I promised you that I wouldn’t blow it out of proportions,” said Jules, reaching for the tea, “but surely you cannot expect me to sit idly while Hans is acting loosely. Did you know that Hans had the audacity to introduce my secretary to Stabbington despite Knudsen being socially superior in every way?”

That was…worrisome. Their littlest brother placed importance in etiquette and good manners more than other nobles. It wasn’t like him to deviate from protocol. _He was the perfect little prince by the age of four._

“Didn’t he get on well with Oline Ostergaard?” asked Klaus as he folded up the letter. “She ought to set him right; nothing captures the attention of young men quite like young ladies.”

“Did you or did you not read the letter just now?” demanded Jules testily. “What man recommends a woman he fancies to a friend? As you know, I’ve my hopes pinned on the Dalgaards. They are a respectable family, but I fear that Hans’ first instinct after calling on them would be to write that man something short of a humorous report. No young lord or lady will set him right while his head is busy fawning over his social inferior.”

The brothers sat in a tense reticence. Klaus gingerly tossed the journal onto a nearby chair and rocked himself. The chair creaked and sighed softly with every rock and he was grateful that his grandmother bequeathed it to him.

“I’ve written to Henrik,” he said slowly, breaking the silence. “We’ve had a conversation about this whole situation and he is of the opinion that it will be benefit both Hans and Mr. Murphy Stabbington. Surely, that is worth noting.”

Jules shrugged. “Is it? Henrik reads a lot of political literature and can – in spite of his grouchiness – find sympathy for the unsympathetic. Goodness, how he got on my nerves when I court-martialed mutineers six years ago…” he chuckled drily. “I can already hear him talk about how scoundrels and hooligans are ‘primarily the products of their environments’. He occasionally talks like we would all benefit from recklessly interacting amidst classes.”

“He is a scholarly man,” defended Klaus. “When have scholars ever been realistic? But I must say I am a little surprised; one should have thought you’d be in agreement with him on this point.”

“Why?”

“You are an admiral,” said Klaus matter-of-factly. “Military service honors and distinguishes everyone regardless of their birth. That’s why you have Captain Dahl and Captain Jensen work side-by-side in spite the former hailing from aristocracy and the latter from a parsonage. Remember how proud you were when awarding medals to your common-born sailors?”

The corners of Jules’ thin lips reluctantly pulled into a lopsided smile. Whether he realized it or not, the admiral expressed a paternal when his men were promoted to commanders and captains. He certainly boasted like one to fellow admirals at parties after having too much to drink.

“That’s different,” said Jules, trying to suppress his smile. “My lowborn men are the sons of farmers and urban workers. Those are _respectable_ jobs, Klaus. Farmers grow the food we eat; workers build the things we use. I’ve men whose parents are servants and that’s fine, too – no shame in being a good servant.

“It’s insulting to compare these men and their origins to those of criminals. They want to give their families a better life; what do those criminals want? We send punish the likes of them in the navy.” A malicious grin split his face. “ _We_ send them to court, have them hanged. We send them to court and Hans sends them love letters.”

Klaus cringed and gently said, “‘Love letters’ is too strong of a phrase. It’s very friendly but there’s no sappiness whatsoever. You should know since you’ve written some sappy letters at his age.”

“And those sappy letters swiftly earned me rejections.”

“Because the recipients were unaware that you’re the royal Jules Erikson,” proposed Klaus. He glanced at the _Art Journal_ and thought of the things which appealed to the middle class. “I believe what Henrik meant is that Hans will improve by socializing with a wider range of commoners. He mostly speaks to merchants and government workers. I expect him to be clueless when it comes to the poorest of the poor and no one likes royals who are out of touch with their people.”

Jules shook his head and frowned. “You’re wrong on that account. Our dearest little brother is so sensitive that he’ll adapt to anything; plus, he does more than enough charity work with Mother to be well-loved by the miserable folk. And forgive me for being harsh – I know you don’t like that – but don’t imply that those scoundrels are our people. If you want Hans to meet more Southern Islander commoners, he can do that in the navy. It’ll show his loyalty to the Isles, too.”

At another time Klaus might have been entertained – it was amusing how the second son expressed more patriotism that the heir. He might have laughed had he not been astounded by the intensity of his brother’s feelings.

Even as a child the lord admiral was a good-humored character, quick to laugh and quick to anger. Not the one to bottle his feelings, Jules laughed and raged as he pleased before settling back into an easy routine; a stark comparison to their brothers who explode at a misplaced teacup after months of pent-up indignation. It was unlike him to mull angrily over a familiar issue for longer than a week.

On top of that, Jules spent less time with the little ones because of his profession. If anyone should be snooping around and breaking seals it ought to be Klaus, whose anxiety hung over him like smog on a still winter day.

Suddenly his brother laughed. “Lord, I’m such an idiot.”

“What do you mean?” asked Klaus, growing apprehensive. His brother rarely insulted himself without a glass of wine in hand and there were no bottles in the sunroom.

“I mean that I completely forgot how much free time young people have,” began Jules with a smile. “Especially in times of peace. The older admirals complain how their sailors take too long to secure wives, say that they would get married quicker if there was a war on the horizon. If sailors on active duty can afford to be unproductive, imagine how much idle time wealthy aristocrats and princes have.”

“Hans isn’t idle,” scolded Klaus. “He helps me manage the bureaucratic hell attached to governing and you yourself said he does charity work.”

“I didn’t say that,” snarked Jules. “What I said was that wealthy aristocrats – like our brother but not him specifically – have idle time to spare. Still, I suspect that is why his head is filled with nonsense. We can hope either Oline or the Dalgaards charm him yet I doubt they will succeed so long his head is too busy admiring that no-good knave.

He rose from his seat and paced to and fro. “Additionally, it’d be wise to ruin his opinion of the man for safe measure. I normally frown upon whisper warfare or anything akin to it but I fear we must use a few backhanded maneuvers to achieve our goals.”

A whirlwind of unease brewed in his gut and Klaus sighed. “Why must you speak like you’re planning to assassinate a dangerous courtier? We’re talking about our brother, not a political rival.”

Pausing mid-step, Jules flushed and pursed his mouth into a hard line. “I apologize.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” assured the crown prince after a deep sigh. “You’ve spoken sensibly despite the militaristic trappings that I honestly expected. My one issue is that it’s somewhat disrespectful. Hans is twenty. I trust him to realize his affections are misplaced.”

Jules spun on the heels of his boots and turned towards him, hands clasped behind his back and brows raised. “Him being twenty is precisely why we must interfere! Have you ever met a clever twenty-year-old? One that possesses sufficient amount of common sense? I haven’t! They’re all under the impression that their youth and merriment will never fade. Hans is an adult like you and me, I acknowledge that; still you must admit there is a difference between the decision-making skills of a twenty-year-old and men in their mid-thirties.”

 _Oh, isn’t that the truth?_ Being the eldest child provided Klaus with ample opportunities to see his siblings face multiple choice and pick the worst possible option. _Isn’t it why those mathematicians shot themselves? They are barely older than Hansel._

Drawing a deep breath, Klaus exhaled and looked at the admiral’s satisfied face. “What do you propose we do? Have him run more errands? You know perfectly well that he’s not ashamed to complain to Father should he feel himself ill-used.”

“Then we simply have to be mindful of not crossing the thin red line which divides asking for help and shirking responsibilities,” said Jules quietly. “Wouldn’t want Father to presume us of exploiting our positions as the two eldest brothers.”


	11. Chapter 11

His brother barely skimmed the morning papers before setting them aside, choosing to focus on his coffee. He took a large sip, stared out the window, then addressed the barber, “How long till you’re done?”

“Let him work in peace,” said Hans sternly, tilting his head to the side. “Grooming requires patience so feel free to leave us, Jules.”

“Oh, it’s alright,” said Jules, smiling. “I’ve nothing cluttering my schedule. Shore leave is kind to me like that and so is Mother; she won’t let anyone disturb my rest after months at sea.”

Hans rolled his eyes and grumbled to himself. He hadn’t known peace since breakfasting with dear Mr. Murphy. Ever since that lovely event, the young prince had suffered everyone. There were weepy letters of thanks from Mr. Dam, weepier letters from the mothers of those stupid mathematicians, ministers to entertain, new courtiers to investigate, and there were whispers of a state visit from Corona.

Having a busy schedule didn’t bother him – he liked being useful – but he was bitter at not being able to see his friend for over a week. Whenever he thought he had a window to see Mr. Murphy (or perhaps fetch Gretka to deliver biscuits to him) another matter would pop out of nowhere. Klaus needed help with paperwork, Jules wanted to see city nobles and refused to go alone, and there were his regular duties to attend to as well.

“His Highness has beautiful hair,” said the barber, snipping a strand beneath Hans’ left ear. The barber grinned at their reflections and combed the red locks. “Thick and shiny, like burnished copper. One should think you’re the envy of all at balls and luncheons!”

“Shame it doesn’t curl,” added Jules. “I hear the color is also going out of fashion.”

Hans’ smile vanished like mist in the morning and he glared at Jules. The barber meanwhile waved an easy hand and chuckled. “You know very well that if auburn is falling out of style, it is your dear mother’s fault,” said the man. “Her Majesty singlehandedly transformed a historically fair family into brunettes. Regardless, good hair is good hair no matter its shade.”

As a rule, Hans refused to hear anything about appearances from a man whose hair regularly split from careless at sea. By regularly sailing to Greenland, Jules practically begged for snags and brittle strands.

Yet it was true that contemporary fashion preferred alabaster skin and dark hair for a striking contrast. He’d accidentally spotted maids dyeing their sandy plaits with crushed walnut shells and a valet do the same with coffee.

 _Trendy or not, at least I have eyebrows,_ thought Hans in consolation. Two of his cousins were blessed (or cursed depending on how you look at it) with white-blond hair and their brows were near invisible.

Hans got so preoccupied with imagining his pale cousins with their siblings’ jet-black hair that he forgot all about the barber until he began to pack his tools. The older man said he’d be happy to provide his services in the future and asked for leave, which was promptly granted.

“Why was he here?” asked Jules once the footfalls faded. “Where is your valet?”

“I gave him leave. His niece is ill.” Hans ruffled his damp hair and slipped into a cream undershirt. “Do you think I ought to wear a corset today or will a waistcoat stiffened with baleen do? For context: I am to accompany Father to see the Minister of Foreign Affairs.”

Jules frowned. “Why won’t he come to Father?”

“I believe he broke his leg in a riding accident.”

His stern demeanor vanished instantly. “Ah, well,” Jules chuckled, “poor man; happens to best of us. It definitely excuses him in the slight breach of protocol.”

“You know,” said Hans, buttoning his trousers, “he is very cocky for a man whose office is newly established.”

“We must be understanding towards him.” Jules raised his arms in a stretch, popping his shoulders. “The man is the first minister of foreign affairs in our history and one of the first ministers of common blood.” He sized him up and said, “Waistcoat’s better.”

Hans nodded and put the corset back into the wardrobe. The waistcoat he chose was bright green with floral and curlicue patterns on the front – perfect for a sunny day. Tying a pink cravat around his neck, he had his brother help him put on his pale-yellow coat. Most men – in accordance to current day fashion – dressed in blacks and blues with splashes of white; Hans had no taste for that and unabashedly went about the city like a swatch of colors. _Oh, what will the minister make of pastels?_

The minister would be dressed in black like any self-respecting merchant of old. Hans, unlike his peers and contrary to Mr. Murphy’s opinion, drew a line between regular commoners and merchants – especially haberdasher-merchants like the new minister. The latter fancied themselves unacknowledged aristocracy, going so far as to regulate their bloodlines with the same noble keenness.

Merchants strove to mimic their betters in speech, mannerisms, and dress; how surprised the minister will upon seeing colorful Prince Hans while his own children were clad in navy blue.

“I hope the meeting will be short,” he said, dabbing hydrangea perfume behind his ears. “I’ve a soiree to attend in the evening to see what our dear subjects have to say about King Frederic and his queen. There are rumors, apparently, involving the king’s master of coin.”

“Oh, I’ve heard whispers about that,” said Jules, perking up and grinning. “The details were far too inadequate to be of serious worth, but there seems to have been an attempted usurpation.”

“ _Usurpation?_ ” He tilted his head, mouth agape in shock.

“From what I’ve heard,” Jules walked up to him by the mirror and admired their reflections, “the master of coin has an illegitimate daughter whose resemblance to the Lost Princess is uncanny.”

Those words told him everything.

Hans tried to wrap his head around that plot, wondering how confident the master of coin was to go through with such a scheme, while Jules nonchalantly continued, “Not that Coronan affairs concern us. It is King Frederic and Queen Arianna’s fault for not producing another heir and a spare. Rapunzel was a girl – the house would have ended with her; and say she wasn’t stolen, that does not mean she’d live what with diphtheria polishing off babies and toddlers. Spares are a must.”

Hans cringed. “Did you have to say ‘polishing off’? You are talking about small children, not a hunk of smoked ham.”

Jules smiled. “I’m barbaric, aren’t I? You must forgive me; it’ll hit our reputation if you are unfriendly at the soiree.”

“It appears I must forgive you for everything these days,” he remarked, unamused. “You’ve dragged me to see nobles that you could’ve visited alone. Klaus asks for my help more than usual though the influx of paperwork is the same and he won’t elaborate.” He huffed. “I’ve had no time to myself this past week and a half because of you two.” _And I am starting to feel ill-used._

Hans grumbled as his brother pulled him into a bear hug, snickering like a thief. “You look like Father when he’s angry!” he said as he patted his back. “I really have monopolized your schedule, haven’t I? Guess I just got excited spending this much time with you, considering how often I am at sea.”

That was unexpected. His brother often complained at home, saying he missed the sea and the ocean breeze and couldn’t wait to return to his ship.

“How dare you use sentimental language on me?” demanded Hans, hoping his cheeks hadn’t flushed from startlement. “Where are your fancy bellicose words and naval terminology I understand solely because I too served.”

Jules perked up. “You can serve it longer.”

“I’d rather not; how would the household cope with my absence?” He smiled, wriggling out of the embrace. “They’re hopeless without me.”

“Don’t let Mother hear you say that,” said Jules, clapping his back. “She won’t suffer insults.”

“Obviously, I did not include Mother!” laughed Hans. He reached for the door and let his brother through first. “She’ll be fine with or without me prowling the palace. Father and Klaus though? Those two have grown dependent on me to pen their letters.”

“All the more reason for you leave for a year or two!” Jules chuckled, stepping over a palatial cat. “How else are they to learn if they have you to read and write their correspondences for them?”

Hans shrugged. “I do as I am told. Nothing more, and certainly nothing less.”

“That is a lie and we both know it,” said Jules, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

“ _Fine,_ ” conceded Hans, brushing the curtains with gloved fingers. “Nothing less and a whole lot more. Maybe unnecessarily more.”

A smirk marked his brother’s face. Jules chuckled and patted him on the back. “Good luck at the meeting. Tell me about the minister when you return.”

“I will.”

***

The carriage shook and trembled and shuddered as they approached the minister’s home. Hans stared solemnly out the window, unused as he as to East Konigsburg. Although the minister lived in a prosperous neighborhood, the journey involved passing areas that left a lot to be desired.

Jules surprise at their seeing the minister was well-founded. Subjects typically came to the king, not the other way around; and Hans – despite his earlier comments – hoped they would not make the minister uneasy in his own house. Poorer nobility was flustered whenever they thought the king or queen wished to see their abodes; who knew how a recovering merchant would feel about it?

He offered his father a steady arm to help him out of the carriage. The street was empty, thankfully. Two guards joined them on the trips, dressed in their blue workaday liveries, whose presence obviously startled the ministerial daughter.

The woman avoided eye contact and bid them to wait while she informed her father of their arrival. She promptly ran off without letting them speak; and so they were left to their own devices in the front garden.

With nothing better to do, Hans decided to properly assess the ministerial house. It was built in a Gothic fashion: pointed gables, irregular chimneys, stained-glass windows, and a looming turret on the left side completed the look. Smoke rose from opposite ends of the roof; the upstairs rooms were tastefully hidden with linen curtains; the smell of fresh bread wafted from the kitchens. Best of all, there were all sorts of flowers lining the perimeter of the house.

Hans wasn’t interested in botany – that was his brother Markus’ realm – but he recognized delphiniums, lilies, phloxes, and Queen Gyda’s Lace blossoming prettily. The sight of them cheered him. _Let us pray there will only be sunshine from this day on,_ he hoped. It’d be a real sorrow if the early bloomers were crushed by unexpected snow-drifts or withered from sudden frosts.

A light double-tap took him away from the flowers. “Are those the Ostergaards over there?” asked Father, gesturing at a couple across the street. “I am confident that woman in the red bonnet is the Countess.”

Eyes narrowed, Hans stepped forward and saw that his father was mistaken. The woman in the red bonnet was, in actuality, the Countess’ daughter. Flaxen curls bounced around her pale face and her brows flew up upon noticing him. She turned to her father, gestured at them, and the pair promptly crossed the street.

“Your Majesty!” exclaimed the count happily. He bowed to Father and the king answered with a respectful nod.

Count Ostergaard was a large man who reminded Hans of a benevolent fairy godfather from the stories. He was tall and stout with a massive belly and a close-cropped flaxen streaked with gray. A golden chain hung from his velvet waistcoat and Hans saw that at the end of it was a pair of gilded scissor-glasses which he raised to get a better look at the prince.

“How do you do, Your Highness?” asked Count Ostergaard, the apples of his cheeks rising to meet his gray eyes. “Fine weather for fishing, isn’t it? Why, I bet you and the lads are restless from the warmth!”

“Alas,” said Father kindly, “my Johannes doesn’t care much for fishing, Vilhelm. He is partial towards hunting instead.”

The count’s grin widened. “A hunter! That’s excellent, Your Majesty! Why, there is no sport more suitable to a young man, to a prince, than hunting.” He rested a hand on Oline’s shoulder. “My daughter here isn’t fond of fishing or fishermen either. She is _very_ fond of hunters though,” said he with a sly wink at Hans.

Lady Oline blushed and murmured an exasperated, “Papa!”

“Oh, don’t be embarrassed, Oline! It is perfectly natural for young ladies to be interesting in dashing young hunters.” Count Ostergaard laughed and his belly shook with him; his laugh was infectious that the guards cracked sheepish smiles. “Say, Your Majesty, what on earth are you doing here? Has Her Majesty’s brother settled here for the summer?”

Father shook his head and explained the minister’s current condition. “It’d be cruel of me to command him to hobble his way up the palatial staircases. Having suffered a broken leg myself in my youth, I know what a hassle they are.”

The count nodded thoughtfully, praising Father’s compassion. For whatever reason, Hans felt odd about Count Ostergaard being in the area at the same time as them. _Will I have to ask the housekeeper to question the maids again?_ he pondered when the ministerial daughter returned and invited them into the drawing room.

“Your Majesty,” said the count before Father could leave, “forgive me for asking, but is it necessary for your son to attend to the minister with you? My daughter wishes to go to a hat sop that is too far for my aching knees. Maybe His Highness could accompany her in my stead?”

“Nonsense, Papa!” said Oline, her face once again pale as porcelain, “I shall never forgive myself for insolently separating the son from the father.”

The guards offered him a compassionate look and Hans resigned himself to his fate.

“I do not see why not, Vilhelm,” said the king, unsurprising to his entourage. “I should think Johannes will prefer Oline’s company over that of his elderly father.”

 _You aren’t elderly,_ thought Hans. _Just because your head and beard are streaked with gray doesn’t mean your soul has wilted._ Not that he could say it aloud since the count loudly thanked the king for his considering the happiness of a most accomplished maiden and freeing her to look at hats and ribbons without having to fuss over an old man. 

Naturally, no one asked for the opinions of the young man and woman in question.

Lady Oline wrapped her soft, warm arm around his own and they went on their merry way. She apologized on the behalf of her father, claiming that he wished to marry her off soon and thus bothered every bachelor in the capital.

“We will be just like them once we have progeny of our own,” said Hans. “Tell me, my lady, do you like urban aristocrats better than countryside nobles?”

“Oh, the city and its sons suit me much better, my lord prince,” said Oline. She flashed a broad smile and tucked a wild curl back into her bonnet. “What does the country have? Fields of green, scores of goats and sheep… Cities are so very exciting! Countrymen spend their days talking about their lands whereas city men take their women to theatres and to balls. I should want to become a true socialite upon marriage.”

Hans laughed and covered his mouth with a gloved hand. “I already pity your lord husband’s wallet.”

“Women must be beautiful!”

“And men must be handsome! Just glance at the Gyldenpalm men and you can take a very good guess at their finances. Haven’t you met them yet? They are holding a soiree this eve which I will attend.”

“I’ve only met Edvard Gyldenpalm,” confessed Oline as they crossed the street. “Poor man; he’s a real fruitcake. I hear his brothers are better in character and… mental abilities.”

“My lady,” said Hans as he opened the door to the shop, “we have to show kindness towards Edvard Gyldenpalm. It is not his fault that he was born feeble-minded.”

Oline, stepping over the threshold, lifted the hem of her skirt and dropped her voice to say, “My father claims Lord Gyldenpalm’s second wife was a lunatic. There is no other explanation for hers doing what she had done.”

The conversation ceased once they were greeted by a shopping assistant. Oline warned Hans that she had a reputation for taking her time at shops and begged forgiveness. The countryside shops were no equals to the splendor of capital boutiques, meaning the lady spent the next half hour fawning over every roll of muslin and silk ribbons displayed.

Although Hans also wished to inspect the fabrics and especially the gloves at the far end of the shop, he decided not to be self-indulgent in female presence. So, he decided to look for entertainment by the windows, observing every curious pedestrian. There was a nanny carrying a baby in her arms, an old man feeding pigeons, children running after horse-drawn carriages, and a crippled beggar sitting on the sidewalk with rags on his back.

Hans patted at his purse and sighed in relief. He quietly asked his companion if she would mind if he waited for her outside and, obtaining permission, he exited the shop and approached the old, wrinkled beggar to give alms.

The beggar lowered his head in thanks for the donation. Days were not generous towards the old man, judging by how empty his hat was, and Hans considered increasing his aid when he heard his name.

Turning towards the source of the sound, he saw Gretka waving at him. She greeted him with her left hand for her right was held by none other than Mr. Murphy.

No time was wasted in approaching them. Hans immediately walked in their direction and, upon meeting them halfway, graced each friend with a respectful nod of the head.

Gretka, dressed in a cream chemise and bright quilted petticoats tied with a ribbon, curtsied and smiled. Mr. Murphy was quiet.

“Speak of the Devil!” said the girl. “We were just talking about you, my lord! It’s a surprise to see you here. You don’t like Eastern Konigsburg much.”

“I am here on business,” said Hans, folding his arms. “You’ve decided to dress like a fishlass again?”

“Your Highness, I am enjoying the last months I’ll get to dress however I like.” She sighed. “Farmor said I won’t be able to run around in chemises and petticoats at the Institute. ‘They will teach you difficult arithmetic there, Margret! Arithmetic and how to be a respectable miss!’” Stomping her foot, she raised her hands high in the air in exasperation. “Why can’t I be a respectable miss _and_ put a cricket on Farfar’s pillow?”

“Did you put a cricket on your grandpapa’s pillow?”

Gretka stared at him, face blank and mouth slightly open. “That’s confidential information, Your Highness,” she said directly.

Hans shook his head, entertained, and shifted his attention to Mr. Murphy. “How do you do, sir? Did my mother send you here?”

“Sort of,” answered Gretka, looking up at the big man. “Farfar stabbed a local ravager two nights ago and since he’s in charge of palatial guards—”

“Your grandfather is third-in-command, I believe.”

“Which basically makes him the chief’s left hand. As I was saying, Farfar stabbed a ravager and he asked Mr. Murphy walk me to dance classes this week. He has the authority to tell them where to go!”

“And you complied?” he asked.

Mr. Murphy shrugged. “Got paid extra.”

“Farfar actually sent Mr. Flynn with me yesterday,” added Gretka. “Mr. Flynn forgot about me because he got into a fight with a fisherman.”

“Ah, this makes sense now,” said Hans. To be honest, he couldn’t imagine Mr. Rider wanting to cross paths with the fishermen after that incident extra pay or not. “Moving on from the subject, you mentioned you were speaking of me?”

“Mister wondered if you—”

“Mister wondered nothing,” interrupted Mr. Murphy, silencing her with a stern glare. Most little girls would probably have been frightened by the tone, so he raised a brow at Gretka rolling her eyes and folding her arms.

“I apologize for the bluntness of my question,” said the prince, an apologetic smile forming on his lips. “I couldn’t help myself – I’m a curious man.”

“Curiosity killed the cat,” cautioned Mr. Murphy, but his tone lacked the expected tetchiness.

“And satisfaction brought it back,” finished Hans. “Though I’m not as curious as my brother, I do—”

“I’m so sorry to interrupt,” said Gretka, “but there’s vendor selling finger chips at the corner.” She patted her hips then shoved her hands down her pockets and muttered to herself. “I swear Farmor gave me coin this morning… Did I store it away for the toys?”

Hans knew that the girl liked money; he also knew she was not a miser. Gretka wasn’t the sort to pretend to have empty pockets and he’d seen her donate to the poor begging by her local church.

“Here,” he said, reaching for his purse. Pressing copper pennigs into her hand, he pointed at the beggar. “Buy yourself and that miserable man chips, alright? And,” he gave her a skilling, “place this into his hat. It’s our duty as Christians to give alms.”

She nodded, thanked him, and rushed across the street – barely avoiding an oncoming chaise.

“Gretka must stop testing fate like that,” he complained. “She’s lucky to have swift feet.”

“Used to do that myself,” said Mr. Murphy.

“You stole bread as a ten-year-old,” said Hans flatly. “One should think eluding threats is your specialty.” He drew a deep breath and sighed. “This week has been busy for me. I hope you’ve found more peace than I, not including acting as escort to a child per the orders of an old grouchy guardsman.”

“Gretka’s a good kid,” defended Mr. Murphy. “Less troublesome than my brother and Rider.”

“That’s less of a compliment to her than it is an insult to Mr. Stabbington and Mr. Rider.”

Mr. Murphy’s brows rose, his expression falling into what the prince classified as neutral-positive. Then they lowered and his face grew suspicious. Surprised, it took Hans a moment to realize that the mistrust was directed not at him.

“My lord?” A soft arm wrapped around his and he saw that Oline had returned with a small paper bag in her hand. “I hoped you did not wait for me long.”

“Nonsense,” reassured Hans. “Lady Oline, allow me to introduce you to Mr. Murphy Stabbington. Mr. Murphy, this is Lady Oline Ostergaard Vilhelmsdatter.”

“A pleasure,” she said with a curtsy. “I apologize, Mr. Murphy Stabbington, but I must steal His Highness away from you. We must head back to the carriage lest our fathers be concerned.”

“Oh, of course.” He glanced at Mr. Murphy and begged forgiveness for the sudden departure. “I hope to see you later this week when our schedules are laxer.”

Mr. Murphy nodded brusquely and murmured his concurrence. Hans loathed to part with the man; however, Lady Oline tugged at his arm and their fathers _were_ waiting.

He wished his friend a good evening and said, “Please give your brother and Mr. Rider my regards,” before reluctantly turning away. 


	12. Chapter 12

Lady Gyldenpalm’s soiree was in full swing. The crystal chandeliers glistened and sparkled like stars and so did the jewelry and medals worn by the guests. Servants could not pour champagne into tall glasses fast enough for the thirsty attendees, who drank like there’d be an alcohol ban on the morrow.

Hans excused himself from a conversation and eavesdropped on others as he walked to the windows. Part of the reason he was at the soiree was to learn more about the nobles; so far, he made out three distinct groups in the drawing room, each led by its own socialite.

Lady Dahl presided over a bevy of middle-aged and elderly ladies, all of whom busily discussed local politics, international affairs, and the Coronan succession problem. Charming Xenia Ostergaard ruled over young people in the second group and she raised her glass to be refilled. The third significant group was headed by the host himself – Lord Gyldenpalm – where men gossiped like fishwives and argued over what entailed in a respectable dowry.

The prince had a full view of the drawing room and smiled at the reveling lords and ladies. Balls and soirees were thrown more frequently during the colder months (no one wanted to waste the little sunshine they got on the Isles) so it has been several weeks since Hans had last seen high society and its scheming darlings in proper glory.

And he rarely attended a soiree hosted by a minor house! The Gyldenpalms were ennobled two generations ago – the founder was an extremely successful admiral – but it was the following generation that struck gold in the spice trade. They were a rich house in spite of their lower pedigree, and their wealth let them rub shoulders with ancient houses like the Ostergaards and even a younger prince.

Hans took note of how richly dressed the mistress of the house was and the many rings glistening on his thick fingers. _New money, bless them, need time to refine their tastes,_ thought the prince to himself.

A gentle hand touched his arm and Hans turned to find Oline Ostergaard smiling at him. She was dressed in a lilac dress trimmed with Valenciennes lace whose cut revealed her pretty white shoulders and brought attention to the diamonds around her neck. The lady lifted the lacy hem as she curtsied deeply to him and Hans returned the gesture with a low bow.

They exchanged customary pleasantries and the prince, from the corner of his eye, saw Kristina Gyldenpalm assess Oline in disgust and whisper something to her friends. 

“Ah,” whispered Oline, “you’ve noticed Miss Gyldenpalm staring. How rude.”

Hans offered her his arm and the pair walked toward an empty table at the left side of the room. “You didn’t say you knew Miss Gyldenpalm. I was under the impression you’ve only met the unfortunate son.”

“Which is the truth, my lord. I’ve met that woman less than an hour ago and she envies me.” She smiled cunningly, taking a seat on a plush sofa. “She is the eldest daughter of the house. Poor thing must think that I plan to steal her right to start the dances later.”

“It’s her right,” said Hans, taking two glasses of white wine for his companion and himself. “I doubt you could steal it even if you wished. My character isn’t so weak that I’ll forget what is owed to the eldest daughter.”

Oline laughed good-naturedly. “Please do not be insulted, Your Highness!” She whipped out her tortoiseshell fan and covered half of her face. “I expected this treatment so it is alright. We ought to be merciful and not take offense at Little Miss Gyldenpalm here.”

“Whatever do you mean, my lady?”

“The Gyldenpalms,” she said in the softest voice, “are so recently ennobled. Miss Gyldenpalm’s great-grandfather was rose up as a naval officer, though his ancestors were nothing more than peasants.” Oline leaned back into the pillows and looked around the room. “It will take them generations to breed out stupid habits like staring and abandon their absurd tastes. Just _look_ at how many rings Lord Gyldenpalm is wearing on his left hand alone!”

Hans opened his mouth to argue, but said nothing. What was there to argue? Oline was right: the Gyldenpalms had none of the subtlety or grace of established noble houses. _Then again_ , he thought, _what is wrong with having peasants for ancestors? Mr. Murphy’s ancestors were surely peasants and he’s just as fine a man as the gentlemen here._

It was then another man, a cousin of Lord Gyldenpalm apparently, joined their table and Oline struck up a conversation about the Coronan succession. This was a subject on which Hans had a lot of opinions, though his mind was too busy to add any input.

***

Children had no filters. They said whatever they wanted and called it a day. Murphy knew that, of course he did, which was why he tried to not be too angry with Gretka. His little extortionist meant no harm. She probably thought she was doing him a favor.

“It’ll cost you double the regular price now,” said Gretka, pouring herself a cup of milk. “Honestly, I bet His Highness would’ve happily given us a picture of him! But no, you just _had_ to cut me off.”

“Got no business asking for his picture in the first place,” said he sharply.

“Don’t talk to me like that!” she snapped. Hands on her hips, Gretka looked a like the ‘proper miss’ her grandmother wanted her to be. “I know you were jealous that Miss Marthe had a picture of her Arvid and you don’t have one of Duke Hans. No offense to the prince, but he’s vain. And nobles send each other small portraits of themselves all the time! He has plenty to spare.”

 _Never taking her to see that woman again._ When Murphy checked on Arvid’s sweetheart it never lasted longer than fifteen minutes; it took him forty minutes to drag the girl away from the woman’s dog and that gave Marthe ample opportunity to talk about her beloved. One thing led to another and he found himself being shown the dockworker’s likeness on scraps of paper.

Gretka – dreadful little vixen that she was – decided that _he_ felt green about not having a likeness of ‘his gentleman’. She heard the story from the innkeeper the other twilight, apparently, and had decided to help him.

At first, she promised to draw him a picture; then she resolved to just ask Hans to give her one. She’d been complaining about him interrupting her all the way to her dancing lessons and now she was making herself home at his flat.

Murphy rubbed his temple, trying to set his mind right. It was more difficult than usual since his thoughts kept wandering to the pretty woman holding on to the little prince.

She was a handsome lady: short and plump with light hair, full brows, and a pleasant air about her. While aristo quirks were still strange to him, he had an inkling that not every blue-blooded woman would freely wrap her arm around Hans’. It felt like she knew he’d give it to her and spared him the trouble.

As much as he disliked this comparison, their being out and about in the shopping district reminded Murphy how Rider – when it lasted longer than a single night – bought his women trinkets and baubles they picked form a market stall. Third of them then believed him to be a serious suitor.

Third of them then tried to knife him in his sleep.

The discomfort he felt was unnerving. So he saw the little prince with a handsome woman; good for the man! She seemed to be every bit the respectable lady wanted at royal courts. Decent company for a prince.

“You’re brooding,” said Gretka from the table.

Murphy rolled his eye and frowned.

Gretka, brows arched, opened her mouth to say something when the door cracked open. Both turned towards the entrance and felt an ease when it was just Seamus.

“Ah!” exclaimed Gretka and left her chair. “Mr. Seamus! The very man I wanted to see! Do you know where I can find Mr. Flynn?”

Seamus looked down at the girl and smirked. “Did you actually get him what he asked for?”

“Of course, Mr. Seamus!” She winked at him and smiled broadly like a conman before parting her petticoat at the sides, untying the pockets. Setting them on the table, Gretka pulled out a small dark bottle and proudly presented it to Seamus. “Allow me to present you _Miss Gretka’s Perfumery Paradise:_ Rosy Lemon-Lavender Delight!”

“Did you make it or…?” he asked, picking up the bottle.

“Mr. Seamus, you offend me,” said she sternly, eyes closed. “I didn’t steal anything. I’m cleverer than that.”

“Oh?”

Gretka paused briefly and opened one eye. “A merchant from the perfume guild regularly comes to the palace, to sell scents and stuff. Her Majesty had me join her at the most recent appointment because I’ll start wearing perfumes myself soon and I might as well see what the market has. She let me take as many samples as I liked and I sort off…” she trailed off and giggled. “I played chemist last night: poured the samples into a teacup, added some dried herbs Farmor keeps in the kitchen, mixed everything, and poured it into this bottle.”

Seamus patted her head. “Cost-effective. I like that.”

The little girl beamed with pride. “Thank you!”

“What’d you add?”

“Oh, you know!” She rocked back and forth on her feet. “The samples were damask rose, lemon, French lavender, hydrangea, vanilla, jasmine, peach, oakmoss, and something called ‘vetiver’. The herbs I threw in were thyme and rosemary and what was blooming in the flowerpots. Do you like the label I drew?”

Seamus nodded approvingly and asked whether she showed it to his brother.

“No,” said she with clear displeasure. “He was too busy moping. We saw Duke Hans with Oline Ostergaard today and he’s been _like that_ since.”

Murphy cleared his throat and scowled at her. “Head hurts, that’s all.”

“It didn’t before you met Lady Oline.”

“Lady Oline? Who’s that?” Seamus turned to Murphy. “You know her?”

“She’s an Ostergaard,” answered Gretka with a sneer. “I’ll have to leg it when they come calling on His and Her Majesty; my presence will be insulting to this Count Ostergaard’s lady. His wife is a Bogomolov and I believe that answers all your questions.”

“It doesn’t.”

“Have the housekeeper explain it to you tomorrow then,” said Gretka. “She knows more about the histories of aristocratic families. Also do you want some privacy? You didn’t come here to chit-chat with me, did you?”

Seamus nodded.

“Alright,” said Gretka, grabbing her perfume and pockets. “I’ll be downstairs playing with the mistress’ dog.”

They heard her jaunty footsteps through the paper-thin walls. Murphy reclined onto his bed, eyes closed and ears waiting to hear yappy barks. Gretka had been a lot today; he hoped his brother didn’t plan to spout nonsense, too.

So,” said his brother in the sleaziest tone possible, “a lady, huh?”

_Nonsense it is._

“I mean, it was inevitable.” Seamus sat down on the foot of the bed. “Your prince has the sort of face women like and he actually has the means to keep one, unlike Rider. He’s out drinking, by the way. Don’t be surprised if he barges in here at midnight to whine.”

“What’re _you_ doing here?”

“Came to see how being a baby-sitter’s affecting you,” said Seamus. “Wild how not even a week after you agree to watch a woman that the Queen has you looking after the girl. What brought that on?”

Grateful that he didn’t press on the other topic, Murphy gave a brief explanation and rose to close the curtains. Meanwhile his brother hummed in contemplation, adding, “Girl’s a bit young to be of interest to ravagers. How old is she? Nine? Ten?”

“Eleven in April.”

“Eleven,” he repeated. “I get why the old man’s worried. Still, it’s a little excessive of the Queen to have you walk around with her until the old man’s calmed.” Sighing, Seamus tapped a foot against the wooden floor and watched him. “You wanna talk about this Oline or?”

 _For fuck’s sake,_ cursed Murphy to himself. He shook his head and Seamus shrugged, accustomed as he was to his silence. The week had been hectic – he had met with the drinking water people, checked on the woman and her baby, suffered Gretka and Elsa buzz his ear off – and the last thing he wanted was to talk about a noblewoman whose company sounded better to his.


	13. Chapter 13

The clouds were dark, heavy. Flynn wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt and looked down onto the cobbled stones. He had spent the night wandering the streets of Konigsburg – a grander city than its Coronan counterpart on all fronts – and admired it. The last three-four years of his life were wasted in Corona – a small agrarian kingdom that lost more and more of its influence with each passing year.

Flynn had considered leaving it, anyway. He pretty much robbed most of the aristocracy at one point or another and better targets left for their handsome estates in Britain or Milan.

Coronan slummers also had a poor view of their homeland. They often talked about how Prussia would seize it sooner or later; the discussions tended to end with them shrugging. Having left Corona, the slummers were now more concerned with the workers’ union on the Southern Isles and maintaining the current prosperity. 

And there was the added benefit of King Erik having thirteen sons. King Frederic might plunge his country into a civil war if he didn’t name an heir soon while the Island King had a baker’s dozen worth of them. _Wouldn’t that be spicy?_ thought Flynn. _Perhaps these Isles will use the chaos to their advantage and conquer themselves Continental land._

Flynn generally didn’t like Southern Islanders. More specifically, he didn’t like the housekeeper. She had reported him to the butler, who reported him to the queen, who threatened to wed him to the first girl he’d leave with child. Then at lunch he told the housekeeper that he liked the finer things in life – he won’t jeopardize his dreams of owning an island and he would not bind himself to a common housemaid when there were baronial daughters in the marriage market.

“You forget yourself,” said the stout woman. “Master Hans can take a baron’s daughter to wife if His Majesty wishes it, though I believe he is too fine for a baroness. I’ve no right to tell my king and queen to whom they shall marry their son but I shall not be satisfied if he is bound to a baroness!

“As for you,” she raised her brows, “perhaps I can find you a girl that can whip you into shape. My sister leads a religious life and lives with young midwives; I’m sure one those girls would be happy to leave her profession and become a wife.”

“Did you listen to me just now?” Flynn rocked on his chair, glaring at her. “If I marry, I want a baroness.”

She smiled tightly at him and knitted her brows. “Proper landed gentlemen won’t give you their daughters so in what world would a baron hand over his flesh and blood to you? Regardless, how will you support such a wife with worker’s wages?”

“I’ll have you know that I was engaged to a baronial daughter once!”

“Mr. Rider, do not compare true nobility to thieving miscreants appropriating illustrious titles.”

“Look, I know I’ve none of Hans’ refined manners b—”

“ _Prince_ Hans,” she had corrected him. “He is not your friend. He is your social superior and you were hired to serve his family. It would do you good to scorch my words on your brain. Now, I want to talk about how you speak of and to my maids.”

The memory warranted another gulp of wine. _Man,_ he thought, _I really should’ve just explained the security measures to the queen and maybe then she would not have had the time to lecture me on the housekeeper’s complaints._

Burgundy drops trickled down his chin as he meandered his way to a wealthy neighborhood. It was wealthy and it showed: the streets were free of garbage, flowers bloomed on front yards, the gates were polished, and grand houses lined the street on both sides – their residents very much awake if the lit windows were a sign.

Staying up late was a luxury Flynn embraced with open arms at the tender age of fourteen. The orphanage mistress exclusively burned tallow candles and was always unhappy when she had to light them; stealing beeswax candles from the local herbalist was the next best thing.

As he reminisced sneaking into that little wooden cottage, Flynn felt the bottle slide down his hand and came crashing down the cobbled street. A smashed wine bottle in the middle of the night – in his opinion – was the loudest sound in the world. Thick pieces of tinted glass shattered like childhood dreams, dispersing around him in a circle.

“Ouch,” he said, gingerly looking at the house to his left. With three stories and every window brightly lit, its inhabitants were definitely rich and would definitely be furious at litter on their street.

He hoped the music coming from inside had drowned the broken bottle. It looked like the masters of the house were hosting a party: silhouettes of gown-wearing, curly-haired women were guided by their men. Flynn could only assume their companions were clad in those sharp, tailored suits favored by Hans.

Although he thought the young prince vain and arrogant, he had to admit that His Highness knew how to dress.

“Who’s there?” said a voice, startling Flynn.

“First I’d like to say this was an accident! Second, who’s asking?”

Sober footsteps approached the gate, the clack of heels against pavement summoned an image of a perfumed puffball that he’d have to sweet-talk into leaving him be. His mind was blurry thanks to drink, his cheek hurting from an earlier fall. Flynn rubbed the back of his neck and wore an easy smile, which turned genuine when he saw who opened the metal gate.

“What’s up, Red?”

“Don’t call me that; I’ve a name and title for you to use.” He folded his arms, eyes fixed on the shattered glass. “Littering in public places, are we?”

“An accident, Prince.” Flynn placed his hands on his hips and gestured at the house with a short nod. “You guys celebrating something?”

“It’s just a soiree,” answered Hans, still focused on the glass. “What is your business here?”

Flynn crinkled his nose and flailed his arms. “You know…stuff. I may be a teensy bit drunk, too.”

“You’re insufferable,” scolded the prince. He rubbed his temple, eyes shut in obvious agitation, before sighing and grabbed Flynn’s hand. Softly opening the metal fate, Hans led him to the side of the house and into the lush garden.

Blooming flowers and tall evergreens grew wild on the perimeter, and they were dense enough to hide two men from anyone looking through the window. Flynn heard a raven caw in nearby and tugged down at the branches clinging to the metal in search of it. Then someone slammed their hands against a piano, sending black birds flying into the dark sky.

“Why’d you bring me here?”

“You’re drunk,” said Hans, seating him on a large stone. “I cannot in good conscience let you wander about the neighborhood smashing bottles left and right in this state.”

“It was _one_ bottle.”

“One too many.” Hans glanced at the house. “Wait here; I’ll fetch you a glass of lemon water. That ought to clear your head somewhat.”

And then he just stood up and left.

Flynn watched him disappear into the merry house, twiddling his thumbs. He smirked at the thought of Hans surrounded by bejeweled women and drunk men in fancy suits. Lilies and phloxes kept _him_ company, gently bending at the slightest breeze. He plucked a small lily from its stem and carefully tucked it into his pocket.

His drunk thoughts decided to entertain his hopes of a noble wife (all while ignoring what the housekeeper told him) and Hans’ smug face came floating to mind.

Since before they were arrested and basically coerced into working for the royal family, both Seamus and him suspected that Murphy had found himself a sweetheart. That was the only plausible explanation for his sudden disappearances, absent-mindedness, and newfound desire to be a tad bit more proper than usual.

Flynn had been certain— he had been absolutely confident that Murphy was fond of the prince in that way till he learned he’d heard what the slummers were murmuring. Everyone knew that that Marthe girl was as good as betrothed to that dockworker – the very same who had dislocated his shoulder – and no one bothered her these days. Still, she had friends and those friends had seen Murphy (and took a great liking to him) and there was nothing more pleasing to a woman than to arrange a successful match for her friends.

 _Probably for the best,_ he concluded. Speaking from experience, being the object of working-class affection was a hundredfold easier to manage than that of a blue-blood. Flynn had an affair with two noblewomen in the past: a young Coronan lady and an illegitimate daughter of a count. They were indulged their whole lives and expected half a hundred things from him.

He imagined this innate arrogance and pride would drive Murphy mad. The fella barely tolerated Flynn; how on earth would he tolerate Hans whose vanity, pride, and arrogance were justified and therefore unshakeable. _Maybe the housekeeper can recommend him one of her maids. They’re all quiet like him._

Besides, Hans wasn’t stupid. Clever rich men like him either wed their equals or superiors. They didn’t throw themselves at whatever stranger the found in the woods, and the prince was sociable. The servants expected him to be engaged by the year’s end.

The maids and footmen (who must know the royals better than Flynn) were in unanimous on that subject. Some hoped they’d be taken from the palace to serve Hans in his new home as a man married, others betted on which lord or lady they thought would become count or duchess. _Only one can wind this game,_ he thought smiling, _so the others will be free game!_

Flynn raised his head at the sound of rustling leaves and winked at the prince, who frowned at him. “Here,” said the prince, giving him a glass. “This ought to set you right.”

Water, as it turned out, tasted heavenly when you were thirsty. He quaffed it in three large gulps and breathed out in bliss, annoying the other man. “Thank you,” said Flynn, smiling.

“You’re welcome.”

Hans touched the stone with a careful hand before presuming to sit on it. Despite the darkness, Flynn could see that His Highness wore dark, somber colors that gave him a mature air. It was odd. He had gotten used to seeing the man saunter about the palace in whites and pastels

“Did someone die?”

“What?”

“You’re wearing black.”

“Blue,” corrected Hans. “Not my usual bright colors, hm? It’s to blend in with the men. I wanted to listen to what they,” he motioned at the lit windows, “had to say. How can I do that if I attract attention to myself? 

A split Flynn’s face before he could restrain it. “Is that espionage I smell?”

“Don’t be daft! I am here simply to maintain royal presence at the party. The hosts are not distinguished enough to warrant my parents’ or eldest brothers’ attendance at their soiree. Had the Ostergaards declined their invitation, I would have also denied the Gyldenpalms – the family that lives here – my appearance.”

“And what is so special about the Ostergaards?”

“They’re an ancient family.”

Flynn placed a hand on the princely shoulder, leaned closer, and said, “I’m not from these parts and I don’t know these things. What does ‘ancient family’ mean?”

“It means,” explained Hans, pushing off the hand, “that a family’s nobleness predates letter patents we use today to elevate commoners. Letter patents were introduced in the fifteenth century. Essentially, these families have existed for so long that their origins are shrouded by mystery.” He smiled. “I descend from ancient nobility on both sides.”

“Alright,” started Flynn after minutes of quiet, “I’ll bite—how was your house founded?”

Hans laughed. “I didn’t suggest anything by that comment.”

“Just answer my question, will you?”

The prince pulled off a glove and smirked at him. “Fine. Most records agree that House Westergaard was established in the ninth century by Eirik the Lion, son of Sigvard, son of Odin.”

Flynn raised a finger. “Excuse me, Odin as in the _god_ Odin?”

“Yes!” said Hans matter-of-factly. “Powerful families used to claim divine heritage. Westergaards and Nordesgaards trace their lineage back to Odin; Houses Ostergaard and Nordskov claim descent from Thor and Baldur respectively. The Hammersmeds – my mother’s birth family – are a little humbler: their records do not flaunt divinity. They instead tell us that their founder slew a sea dragon and married a half-elven princess.”

“And you call that ‘humbler’?” asked Flynn, incredulous. “Slew a sea dragon and married an elf? That’s humble in your book?”

“ _Half_ -elven, Mr. Rider,” corrected Hans humorously. “And do appreciate that they don’t say their forefather was a literal god. A stark contrast to old Westergaard family trees which write ‘Odin’ in giant letters at the very top. If you’d like, I can direct you to a book in the palatial library. There is a saga detailing the conquests of Eirik the Lion in it. It’s quite interesting and we’ve a German translation!”

Flynn felt himself twitch. Aristocracy so stupid and ridiculous and he so badly wanted to be like them. No one but an aristocrat could say ‘Oh my ancestors were gods and half-elven princesses’ followed by talking about some dusty old tome in the library.

“We also have images of our ancestors,” continued Hans obliviously. “I believe over half of them are at Hjelm – our historical seat of power – but the library has reproductions. We’ve portraits of my grandparents hanging all about the palace; there is a likeness of my grandfather in Mother’s study, actually. You must have seen in it when you meet with her.”

“The man with long blond hair?”

“That would be him,” said Hans with a nod. “I’m told King Albert refused to wear wigs and powdered his hair with starch instead. He stopped doing that entirely after Louis XVI of France lost his head and transformed court life into a more austere affair.”

“Your grandfather…sounds fun.”

Hans snorted. “King Albert had his reasons. Anyway, what about you, Mr. Rider? I’ve been going on and on about my heritage; I’d love to hear about yours.”

“I am an orphan,” said Flynn flatly.

“That tells me nothing. Gretka is an orphan yet we know her father was in the navy and her mother’s father was a haberdasher-merchant.”

“Fair enough,” said Flynn, resting the palms of his hands against his head. “I guess people everywhere are orphaned. Still, the girl has grandparents chasing after her while I was a regular run-of-the-mill foundling.

“But, if you must know, the woman in charge of my orphanage said my father died during the Sixth Coalition War and my mother saw no reason why she should be a widow for the rest of her life. She was young and pretty (or so my caretaker claims) and her one flaw was the toddler clinging to her skirts. So, she gave the orphanage mistress three gold marks, kissed me on the cheek, and left to seek her fortune and hopefully a man who won’t die in the Hundred Days.”

Although Hans shifted in his seat, Flynn gave him credit for not breaking eye contact. “My condolences.”

Flynn waved him off with an easy hand. “Don’t be. She worked in a factory and no factory work had golden coins to throw around – they must’ve been her savings. Let’s just be glad she didn’t abandon me in a slum or exposed me in the woods, which she definitely could’ve.” He stretched his arms. “To be honest, I can’t even recall her face; and is it really possible to miss someone you can’t remember? The Stabbingtons have it worse if you ask me: they knew their parents and _still_ were left alone. My fate is preferable, I think.”

“Do you know anything of their lineage, Mr. Rider?”

“Please call me Flynn.” He raised his arms as Hans opened his mouth, “I know it’s ‘not polite’ or whatever but it is starting to bug me. We’re practically the same age and hearing you call me that makes me feel old.”

“You are older. Aren’t you six years older than me?”

“Never mind my age. You’re my social superior.” Flynn scowled. That phrase was a favorite of the housekeeper. “Call me Flynn and let us be done with it.”

“Social superior or not, I refuse to disrespect you with informality.” Now he scowled. “Answer my question, sir.”

Flynn huffed angrily. He saw there was no arguing with the prince tonight.

“Contrary to popular belief,” he began, “we aren’t close. We don’t lament our past together round a campfire… Saying that, I did hear from a very reliable source – I won’t tell you who my source was – that their old man was a ruined shopkeeper. My knowledge of their – did you say lineage? – my knowledge of it starts and ends with this tidbit.”

There ensued a pause. Hans sat quietly, arms folded over his lap, and whispered ‘shopkeeper’ in a disbelieving tone. “I didn’t expect that.”

“None of us expected that.” Flynn wrapped an arm around his reluctant upper-class buddy and pulled him close. “I want something in return. You scratch my back and I scratch yours so—”

“The housekeeper said you’ve an eye for baronesses. I presume you want me to introduce you to one?”

“…Yes.”

Hans rolled his eyes and rose from the stone. He looked first at the house then at Flynn and, in a hushed voice, said, “You shall join me on a charitable visit on the day after tomorrow.”

“What? What charitable visit? What are you talking about?”

“I agree wholeheartedly, sir,” said Hans as he stepped over a fallen branch. “Christian men of wealth and rank must bless the poor and I intend to pay a visit to an impoverished baronial family. The eldest daughter is ill and I want you to keep me company. Good evening, madame; sir.”

Flynn peeked from behind the bush and saw an elderly couple walking a few meters away from them. He lowered himself to the ground lest he be seen while Hans made small talk.

“Well,” said Flynn once the couple finally decided to return inside, “I should probably get going.”

“You most definitely should. They asked me to play cards with them and I’ve been outside for far too long.” Hans brought his hands to his face and took a deep breath. “It’s getting cold. Mind you don’t catch a chill.”

“Sure. Where should I meet you and when?”

“Eight o’clock at the stables, Mr. Rider,” said Hans softy. Then he sashayed to the glowing parlor and discreetly waved Flynn goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The history of House Westergaard? In my fic? It's more likely than you think!!
> 
> Pre-Christian Anglo-Saxon and Germanic nobles did actually claim to have divine/mythical heritage so there's a fun fact for you guys!


	14. Chapter 14

The thin, bitter-looking stablemaster had been glaring at Flynn for the past half hour. It was unnerving. Flynn rocked on his heels and didn’t dare to touch the horses without an explicit offer. Despite his efforts, the stablemaster proceeded to be sour as a lemon and somehow got sourer when Hans arrived at exactly eight o’clock in the morning.

“Good morning, Mr. Rider,” said Hans, lifting his hat. “Mr. Nikolajsen.”

The stablemaster – Mr. Nikolajsen apparently – bowed and immediately commenced his angry lecture. Hans acted as if he accepted it; he saddled his horse while listening to the man, occasionally saying something in return to quieten the other.

There was a familiarity between them. Flynn had noticed that the younger servants were as demure and docile as possible when the princes walked past them while the older servants treated them with great affection. The butler, the cook, and the housekeeper were as fond of Hans and his brothers as the orphanage mistress was of her precious foundlings.

Flynn curiously watched Hans nod at the increasingly irate stablemaster, who flailed his hand in the air in between wagging his finger. Both Flynn and the stablemaster were startled when Hans grabbed the latter’s hands and spoke with a smile on his face. Whatever he said in their tongue, it placated the man enough to hand him the reins. Taking two large steps, the stablemaster opened a gate and led a spotted horse towards Flynn.

“Thank you, Mr. Nikolajsen.” He petted the spotted horse as the servant tied baskets to its saddle. “Her name is Avelanna. You’ll find her a joy: she has a sweet temper like no other.”

“Alrighty,” said Flynn, relieved as he watched the old man leave. He then eagerly climbed onto Avelanna’s back. It had been months since he last rode on horseback and it was nice that he didn’t have to steal one to ride it.

Their journey to the poor baron took them to a little lane diverging from the main road by the palace. Flynn knew at once that they were in a fancy area; the children playing on the streets were clean, wore leather shoes, and governesses watched them from the side.

They scattered at the sound of horses clopping down broken cobblestones and servants picked up the toddlers who didn’t know better. Hans pulled back the reins of his steed for a moment and greeted the flock of women and children. The adults curtsied, the children waved excitedly, and Hans gave the oldest kid to a few coins to split among themselves.

Flynn couldn’t help but smile as the rascals excitedly waved them off. Hans spoke about how it was good to see children at play in the sun after a dreary winter.

About a quarter of a mile down the lane stood a large, crooked, twisted apple tree. Its flowers had begun to blossom and its branches was a home to a birds’ nest. Hans used it as a point of reference apparently, and promptly steered his horse to the right.

“Mr. Rider, may I ask how you and the Messrs. Stabbingtons are acquainted?” asked the prince.

“We sort of met one another while fleeing Coronan guards,” he answered. “Me and my friend Lance broke into a jeweler’s shop; the Stabbingtons broke into a granary across the street. Just happened to run into one another in the alleys and decided to go to a tavern in the nearby woods.”

“I see.” Hans slowed his horse. “You seem to primarily work with them these days, yes?”

“Ah,” Flynn smiled, “you’ve been researching, haven’t you?”

“It never hurts to investigate an acquaintance’s background,” was the candid reply. “Do remember that I must justify your and your colleagues’ lives to courtiers who think you should’ve been executed. They’ve been grumbling and muttering about the three blind mice who have been spared when their tails (or necks if you will) should’ve been cut with a butcher’s knife.”

“I expected that.”

“Did you?” Hans sounded surprise.

“Yep. You aristos are brutal.”

Hans smacked his arm. “We are not. I’ve seen miserable folk over the years and they’re as savage as wild dogs. Wretched people have no morals.”

“It’s hard to have morals when you’re starving,” chastised Flynn.

“It’s difficult not to be brutal when you’re responsible for the lives of millions. Blood will spill if you do nothing, blood will spill if you do something, and people exist to spite each other.” Hans tapped the side of his horse, hurrying it along. “A good ruler ought to drag his people into a more prosperous age no matter how unwilling they are.”

Flynn kicked his horse harder and broke into a gallop. Needless to say, he was cross. His Royal Highness grew up in a palace, never had to skimp on candles, and had living parents who obviously liked him. What did he know of the world?

“Sure,” said Flynn. “Whatever you say.”

***

Hans had the misfortune of watching Mr. Rider ‘smolder’ the ill lady and he must admit that he disliked the experience intensely. He looked like an idiot and acted the part, too. The way his lips puckered and his eyes narrowed were absurd. Worst of all, the ill woman was all politeness and readily engaged in conversation with the worthless creature.

She stared at Hans pleadingly when he excused himself from the room. Mr. Rider, on the other hand, delighted at losing the prince and quickened the pace of the conversation.

He walked down the stairs and into the kitchens where a servant boy unpacked the baskets they’d brought. Fruits, vegetables, and wine stood on the counter; and Hans ordered him to run to the palace and seek out the cook.

“Tell the guards Duke Hans sent you,” he said as he gave the boy a pitcher. “I’ve warned them of your coming. Once you are inside palatial grounds, you must turn to the left and walk until you see a section of the palace above which rise two ribbons of smoke. Those shall be the kitchens. Ask the cook to fill the pitcher with eel broth and to give you a loaf of this morning’s bread.”

The boy nodded and was sent on his merry way by the baroness. “A thousand thanks, Your Highness,” she said. “It is good to know that the Crown cares for its lord and ladies regardless of their wealth and power.”

“It is the Christian thing to do, my lady,” said Hans. His ears perked up at Mr. Rider’s laughter and he remembered the invalid unable. Anxious as he was to let her rest from the ‘smolder’, he requested the baroness to send his companion down for they must return to the palace before noon.”

The baroness curtsied and fetched Mr. Rider herself. Hans cringed when the man bowed too low and was too slow in kissing the woman’s hand. His soul fled his body when Mr. Rider wished the woman good night in French mostly because there was no trace of humility as he finger-gunned her.

“This was the first and the last time I am taking you anywhere with me,” said Hans the second the door was shut. “You’ve embarrassed me and tormented the sick woman upstairs.”

“She loved me!” Flynn set his foot in the stirrup and pushed himself up onto the saddle. “She said I’m charming.”

“Women say that to every unpleasant man who talks too much; and if the unpleasant man is silent then he becomes a ‘good listener’. Young ladies like her are too well-mannered to tell you to be quiet. Know that you’re treated gentler since you came here with me in tow.”

Mr. Rider looked him in the eye for a second before turning away, his face proud and irritated. The horses trotted at a leisurely pace; Hans tapped Sitron into a swifter gait and ignored the complaints uttered behind him.

Notwithstanding his unfortunate companion, he enjoyed calling on the poor family. Charitable work (including deeds done purely to better public opinion) was invariably pleasing to the heart. Hans remembered calling on the poor with his grandparents as a child; they had him pour soup into wooden bowls. 

These days he had his nieces and nephews help give clothes and food and toys to the needy. It pleased him to show their handsome little faces to the people, so that they would be recognized and, most importantly, loved by them.

Philanthropy would fill his schedule starting next week. April shall commence, bringing western winds and guests and church-goings. Mother traditionally busied herself with planning a luncheon for the nobles and calling on hospitals and orphanages; Hans shall either join her in her endeavors or help feed the poor outside of Konigsburg Cathedral and the palace.

“Hm.” He turned his head and called out to Mr. Rider, “To what church do you belong?”

Mr. Rider matched his pace and raised a brow. “Tell me what your faith is first.”

“The Church of the Southern Isles,” answered Hans; when that elicited no reaction he added, “Lutheran.”

“Interesting!”

“Is it?” He rolled his shoulders and kept his eyes forward. “My whole family is Lutheran and has been since the Reformation. Your turn.”

“I was told my mother was Lutheran. Didn’t stop her from giving me to the Catholics. My orphanage was called _Saint Jerome’s Foundling Home_ just so you know what levels of Catholicism we’re talking here.” He held up hand, preventing Hans from making any remarks. “And before you ask: the Stabbingtons are Protestants. I don’t know what kind exactly, but they are. Some of the things they’ve said in the past would have struck a Jesuit dead. Why do you ask?”

“My lord father was curious.” An honest response. Father did not explicitly ask Hans to inquire about religion, but the son detected a hint of curiosity in past discourses. _He will be happy to hear this._ “The three of you possess Irish-sounding names – at least to my father’s ears – and Irishmen are fervent Catholics.”

The chit-chat faded afterwards. Hans’ mind had begun to wander when ten minutes later, as they passed the apple tree, Mr. Rider said, “I’m pretty sure Marthe and the girls are Catholic,”

He furrowed his brows and shot his companion a questioning glance. “What girls?”

“You know. The slum girls. You’d be surprised by how many Coronans are Catholic.” Mr. Rider cocked his head like an owl. “Didn’t Murphy tell you about them? Thought you guys were thick by now.”

“Are you talking about Miss Marthe?” He ignored the last comment. “Mr. Murphy enlightened me on her situation. Her soon-to-be fiancé has yet to return, I know.”

“Yeah, and I’m referring to her friends here. I hear they’re all rather fond of him. He’s quiet and poor girls like that, I guess. They get yelled at by foremen a lot so he must be cleansing. I never did imagine he’d be somewhat popular amongst women, least of all with factory seamstresses.”

“How do you know this?”

“I inferred it!” Mr. Rider grinned. “Before our paths crossed that night, I was drinking in the east end of the city and met the girl’s neighbors. They were all laughing ‘bout something and told me that Murphy spent almost double the time than normal at her place. I’ve got absolutely no idea what they were doing, but Murphy isn’t in the habit of idling away with strangers he dislikes so...”

Hans tightened the grip on the reins as Mr. Rider continued to describe these seamstresses. He listened, and felt something wicked flower inside of him; its vines wrapped themselves around his ribs and lungs and heart, tugging them straight to his gut as a chill ran down his spine.

It was surprising, really. He was a social, gregarious man yet even he lost his patience with people. Servants were a chore to manage at times, his brothers were as imperious as him and that inevitably led to clashes, and his friends – even dear Valentin – needled at him about the future (in their defense, their positions were less secure than his own).

Then came Mr. Murphy.

In spite of his arguably insipid silence and overly stern demeanor and blatant refusal to any social invites that involve other people and his somewhat objectionable brother, Hans liked him. He liked him! Befriending him was as simple and natural as breathing, for Christ’s sake. It was perhaps too natural, in fact, since he routinely forgot that his quiet-mannered friend was not merely a low-ranking gentleman but a fully independent working man.

And as a fully independent working man – who, mind you, had no tempers to handle – Mr. Murphy’s personal life was of no consequence to anyone beside his brother. Newspapers had printed announcements when Hans was delivered; his parents had sent letters informing important individuals of his birth – he expected the same to happen when he wed and passed. Mr. Murphy had (and in all likelihood will never) receive such attention. Should the man wish it then he could settle down with a wife on the morrow without notifying a single soul about it.

Hans frowned. He wasn’t sure if he liked that.

 _Marriages breed marriages,_ thought Hans. _Miss Marthe and that dockworker shall wed in mid-to-late April—early May at the latest, which will consequently ignite the desire in their friends. Now that Mr. Murphy has steady employment, any decent woman should think him a marvelous catch._

“Stalyan, my ex-girlfriend, once said to me that—”

“Mr. Rider,” he interjected sharply. He winced at his own tone. “Mr. Rider, I apologize for the interruption; however, I must ask: despite your rocky relationship with the Stabbingtons you still know a fair bit about them, yes?”

“I like and want to believe that.” Mr. Rider chuckled. “It’d be pretty awkward if I knew nothing about them after like ten years of working together.”

“Precisely! With that in mind,” Hans took a deep breath, “would you say that Mr. Murphy is the sort of man who’d be in a hurry to the altar? Scratch that; does he entertain the idea of his own nuptials?”

“Ha!” Mr. Rider lit up like the spring sun and his shoulders shook as he laughed, sounding worrisomely content. “God, those guys! Those guys! They’re _huge_ fans of weddings and all that… lovey-dovey stuff. You’d never expect it but people are full of surprises; eh? They refused to help me crash a wedding once because ‘it’s a special day, Rider’. It’s just a wedding. The likeliest end to marriages is that the husband or wife or both die and leave a gang of traumatized children as their legacy.” He slowed his voice and narrowed his eyes in glee. “Oh, they were furious with me for ‘speaking ill’ of these ‘holy matrimonies’.”

Mr. Rider laughed merrily. Hans refrained from further inquiries. He did not wish to hear anymore on the subject and kept his silence till they returned to the palace. The other man was more than happy to fill the silence – it was obvious Mr. Rider loved the sound of his own voice as much as he loved his own face – and so the prince unassumingly listened to him, ignoring how the vines inside clenched around his heart.


	15. Chapter 15

By the time they left the stables, the clock struck half past one. Feeling peckish, Hans walked in the direction of the kitchens to request for a tea tray to be sent up to his room; he wanted to be alone.

“Hey!” Mr. Rider jogged up to match him and lightly elbowed him. “Why’re you glum all of a sudden?”

“I’m slightly under the weather.”

Silence. Then, “Is it because I embarrassed you?”

Hans glimpsed at the man, a bit startled by the earnest tone, and said, “No, it’s not that. I’m just tired; nothing lemon cakes and a cup of tea won’t fix.”

Mr. Rider nodded, then just continued walking alongside him.

“Are you required at the palace today?” asked Hans, hoping to remind him of his duties.

“Not till the evening. Your mother commanded me to tell the guards how I broke into the Equis Castle for research purposes.” He paused and pursed his lips. “What exactly did I do that was embarrassing?”

 _Oh, for the love of heaven!_ “You weren’t embarrassing so much as you were too intense. You must’ve noticed how restrained our social circles, Mr. Rider. We are trained in social arts since before we leave our cradles and you’re somewhat of a wild card. Men and women ought to behave correctly and properly when together, after all.”

The man considered that for a moment, and Hans hoped it would be enough food for thought to get him to leave. He was proven wrong ten seconds later with a shameless:

“Can you teach me then?”

“Teach you what exactly?”

“This protocol of yours.” Mr. Rider smirked. “Red, if you—”

“ _Do not call me that_ ,” said Hans sharply. “We’re not friends.”

Mr. Rider smirked grew even more intolerable. “Aren’t we? We visited that woman together.”

“That was an act of charity towards her and you both.” He quickened his gait. “Why do you need to know our idiosyncrasies? Are you seriously meaning to marry up the social ladder?”

“Of course!” exclaimed Mr. Rider, widening his footsteps. “And when I do, I shall tell everyone that you’re responsible for my astonishingly fantastic manners.”

Hans refrained from a smart comment; in retrospect, he should have just scolded Mr. Rider for smoldering and let the subject die. _Should he succeed though then it would be great for_ my _reputation…Christ Almighty, I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to teach him how to bow properly. It’ll keep me busy, too._

“Mr. Rider, do you know where the sunroom is?”

“I do.”

“Very good.” Hans halted and turned towards him. “Go there. I shall come to you after going to the kitchens.”

Mr. Rider smirked and bowed too deeply (and his posture was completely wrong), showing the prince what he had to reinvent.

***

“The cook said he was pale.”

“He is pale.”

“Pal _er_ than usual.”

“That would be because he has what Aunt Selma calls a ‘rose-petal complexion’ and an auburn head. Boys and girls with red hair tend to be paler than most.” Jules clenched his jaw and snapped, “I’ve bigger issues on my mind right now, Klaus.”

“I’m sure the girl is fine and hale and all will be well.” Klaus was grateful for his long legs; it made it easier to catch up to Jules. “The lieutenant commander is a respectable man by all accounts.”

“I wanted to see the Dalgaards and this marked an end to their spring plans.”

“You shall see them in the summer.”

“Summer is too late. I needed them yesterday.”

Klaus took a deep breath, somewhat annoyed by his brother. This morning they had received a letter from Captain Oluf Dalgaard whilst lunching together, and Jules had been happy as a child when he broke the seal. He even read the letter aloud to Klaus, which in retrospect was a mistake.

People had different reactions to when things did not go their way. Some, like the crown prince, were seized by dread and restlessness. Others, like Father, grew quiet and brooded the situation. Jules did neither; he instead got angry.

The letter was a detailed account of recent events in the Dalgaard household that directly caused them to delay their trip to the capital till summer, for which they begged forgiveness. Benedikta, the younger daughter, had eloped with (or, as Captain Oluf and Jules insist, had been abducted by) a young lieutenant commander.

Despite the letter being fully against said lieutenant commander, Klaus could not help but think he would make a proper husband to the girl. He was young, accomplished, and an heir to a minor holding in Lindholm – Benedikta, whose habits he heard were economical, should want for nothing.

These positives, however, failed to bring relief to the Dalgaards. Although they were neither ancient nor comital, they were an exceptionally respectable family on its way to elevation. _Poor girl,_ thought Klaus. _I pray her parents do not disown her for the flight._

“I shall murder that stupid boy,” snarled Jules. “I swear I’ll demote him and send him to the farthest corner of the kingdom.”

“You’ve no right,” reminded Klaus. “He has done no wrong against the country or navy. Of course, it is not ideal that he began a new chapter of his life by enraging his parents-in-law; but what can we do? I am simply glad he’s a landed gentleman for that means young Benedikta will not be reduced to drudgery.”

They turned a corner and whisked down the hall. Jules had a habit of pacing or cantering about the place when upset; something about moving to and fro relaxed him. This was not a trait shared by his elder brother whose heartbeat quickened from the hurried pace.

Klaus gently guided his inflamed brother towards the sunroom – he knew Hans had gone there and wished to see him for himself in case he was ill. Better to be safe than sorry.

“How can the girl become a wife in good conscience?” demanded Jules, sharply stopping. Klaus hastily placed a hand on his shoulders and continued him along the corridor lest he turns into another direction. “How can the man take a beloved daughter in good conscience? I will have a word with him when Oluf finds his sister and brings her back home.”

“Do you think Oluf will challenge the lieutenant commander to a duel?”

“I won’t blame him if he did.” Jules pulled out his mother-of-pearl snuffbox and took some. “His sister has been abducted—”

“Possibly eloped.”

“ _Abducted_ and their father is ailing. Oluf has every right in the world to duel the scoundrel,” said Jules curtly. “Duels were criminalized on their island, though there is a ferry that goes to an islet where it is technically legal.”

Klaus pursed his lips. He’ll have to draft a technicalities-proof ban on duels. “Do you think it is wise of—”

“There is a difference!” came an irritated voice from the sunroom. “True politeness is innate, Mr. Rider! I should say that Mr. Murphy is a stellar example of it despite his not receiving formal education. Etiquette, on the other hand, is how people show politeness in proper society. It is susceptible to change while politeness is forever.”

“I am begging you,” said another voice, “to speak like a normal person.”

“Do you or do you not want me to help you cultivate your graces?”

The brothers blinked in curiosity. Jules pursed his lips, took a deep breath, and opened the door wide open.

No sooner had he done that than Hans and Mr. Rider of all people froze in the middle of the sunroom. The former held an etiquette book in hand, the latter bowed with poor posture.

Klaus was relieved to see that his youngest brother energetic. His cheeks were rosy and he stood as straight as any man. Next to him Mr. Rider smiled at them and wished them a good day.

“Hello.” Hans sized them up. “Do you need something?”

“No!” said Klaus after a moment. “No, no, no; we’re fine. We were just passing by the sunroom and heard commotion. Are you two alright?”

“Oh, we’re fine!” He gestured at Mr. Rider. “I am teaching Mr. Rider polite manners.”

“I see,” said Klaus, hands clasped together. He smiled. “We shall leave you to it. Have fun.”

Hans bowed and flipped through the book as Jules grabbed Klaus’ hand and pulled them out of the room. Shutting the door, he glared at him and sternly said, “Is Mother at home?”

“Yes, I believe she is busying herself with needlework. Why?”

Jules tightened his grasp. “I must speak to her now,” he said, leaving no room for argument.

***

Stjerne the cat reminded Kristina of a sphere, or a globe. She was a long-haired thing as a mademoiselle and pregnancy had turned her into a dumpling. The fatter she got, the lazier she was; she currently sat upon the queen’s feet, purring like a little engine.

“What shall we do with the kittens, Erik?”

Her husband pressed his hands flat against the harp, freezing the strings. Then he flashed a warm smile at her. Unlike most royal couples, Kristina and Erik liked and loved each other. They enjoyed spending time together; going so far as to share a bed for added intimacy. It was not an uncommon occurrence for Erik to play music or read aloud a book beside her as she knitted and sewed and crocheted and weaved.

“Gretka and the kitchen boy wanted to adopt one each,” he said, plucking a string. “Mrs. Adamsdatter at the hunting lodge requested a new cat to keep the residence free of rodents. Oh, Hans and Ethan wished to adopt kittens, too.”

“That’s five kittens in worthy hands already,” she noted and tied a knot at the end of a pink string. She was cross-stitching a picture of water lilies and was finishing up the petals. “Perhaps my sister shall like one. Selma has been afflicted with low spirits since Bruno and Gabi died in January. A kitten will lift them, surely.”

“Bruno and Gabi were good dogs.” Erik tentatively tuned a string before playing a merry tune. “Do you think Selma will like a cat though? She loves dogs more than anything, doesn’t she?”

“It’s because she was a sickly girl. Mama did not like her leaving the house for too long. Selma tires quickly and even as a child she was not a very good walker: journeying the whole perimeter of our estate would’ve left her dead-tired.” Kristina set the needle on the cloth and exhaled. “She used to cry bitterly when Ivar and I played tag or climbed trees because she couldn’t keep up with us. Then one day Papa brought home a basket inside of which slept a cream poodle pup and it was love at first sight. Selma had no more reasons to cry whenever her ‘horrid’ older brother and sister were outside rolling in the mud after a downpour.”

Erik bit his lip, stifling a laugh. “Rolling in the mud?”

“I was a little girl once!” Kristina tutted in disbelief, smiling. “Mock me and I’ll secretly feed you a mud pie. Eating it made my then seven-year-old brother sick for a week so it’ll annihilate a fifty-six-year old you.”

He shook his head and focused on his play. Kristina chuckled softly before returning to her needlework, slowing at the sudden noises in the corridor. She frowned, placed the wooden hoop to the side, and gingerly walked towards the door. Erik too had slackened his tempo.

Klaus and Jules were bickering. The former had his arms raised as if to calm the latter, whose left hand was balled in a fist presumably to bang at the door. _Is it about the Dalgaard girl?_ she wondered. Her second son was close to that family and she expected him to be upset over the recent events.

“Mother!” exclaimed Klaus. “How do you do?”

“I’m well.” She ushered them in and sat back down on the sofa as they greeted their father. “What is it?”

“Your youngest son is acting the teacher to Mr. Rider,” complained Jules. “What do you think of that?”

She blinked and addressed Erik, “When did they become friends?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said her husband, rising from his chair and joining her on the sofa. “I was under the impression that Hansi didn’t like Mr. Rider. He dislikes Mr. Stabbington. He thinks him brutish.”

“Mr. Stabbington isn’t that bad. Too stubborn for my liking, but he’s alright.” Kristina picked up the white cat and pressed her to her chest. “Klaus, open the window please.”

“Mother,” said Jules, narrowing his already narrow eyes as his brother went to fulfill the task, “may I be so bold as to inquire why you endure these men when there are excellent loyal men to take their places?”

The cat purred loudly against her bosom and Kristina affectionately squeezed her. “Why indeed?” she said in a lazy tone. “I endure them because your father willed it, and I’ve never broken my wifely vows to ‘love, cherish, and obey till death us do part in accordance to God’s holy ordinance’. Your lord father commanded it, so I obeyed.”

Erik hastily added, “You wouldn't have obeyed if it had been an entirely stupid decision. Everyone also knows that that bit of the vow is first and foremost a formality. God will surely forgive wives who disobey incompetent fools of husbands. I’m neither, thank heavens.”

“You’re just silly.”

He smiled comically and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

“Oh my goodness,” muttered Jules, exasperated. His hands were pressed together in front of his face and he lowered himself for a moment. “I am delighted – as a son – that you are very much in love but I ask you – as a troubled son – to return to the pressing matter at hand. I’ve never fully understood why you hired those three scoundrels. I’ve had to placate General Nordskov by stationing his grandsons closer to home as a result!”

“I must support Jules in this,” added Klaus, taking a seat across from them. He kept looking over at his brother as if that one was a fishing net about to burst. “I cannot think that intimacy between Hans and…them can lead to anything profoundly good.”

“First Murphy Stabbington, now Flynn Rider.” Jules folded his arms and his expression hardened. “Next thing we know he’ll befriend a pub full of thugs.”

Erik raised a brow as he petted the purring cat. “Bold of you to assume your brother will step foot into an establishment with such vulgar patrons.”

“I’m merely speculating, Father.”

“Stop speculating then,” chided Erik. “Hans wanted them to be hired and I agreed to the contract he drafted, which you can find in my study if you’re this keen. Your mother wasn’t a fan of this plan but she has told me that their expertise – yes, Jules, their expertise – has improved the palace. Speak with the captain if you must; he will attest to this, too.”

Jules was unsatisfied and Klaus was doubtful; their countenances betrayed their mistrust. Kristina offered her eldest a sympathetic smile, which he returned. She had disliked the thieves with a zealot’s fervor in the beginning. It was hard not to, considering her husband consented simply because of an old wives’ tale surrounding her emeralds.

“What if he winds up liking him too much?” demanded Jules.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Father,” interjected Klaus gingerly, “we’re concerned that this attachment might ruin Hans’ marital prospects in the future. He doesn’t seek courtships from the nobility and he increasingly prefers to spend time with Mr. Murphy.”

“That’s not true. Hans was such a busy bee these past weeks or so and he wrote letters to his friends. If anything, he’s been seeing Mr. Murphy less and—” Erik paused, then turned to his wife and unsubtly whispered, “Krissie, I do suspect our eldest sons purposefully filled Hansi’s schedule.”

Jules shrugged with a smirk. “Precautionary measures cannot hurt.”

Kristina sighed. “Henceforth, you will stop unnecessarily bothering your brother.”

“ _Mother_.”

“No, Jules, I won’t have your brother running around doing stupid errands as ‘precautionary measures’. Allow me to cut to the chase and relieve you of your burdens: Hans is partial to Mr. Murphy; he just isn’t…fully aware of it.” She added, “Yet. And the more I speak with Mr. Murphy, the less reason I have to presume this partiality to be unreturned. Honestly, I’m surprised neither of them had connected the dots at this point. April is next week and they continue to act like that. Poor Henrik has been expecting a letter announcing an official courtship for two months now.”

“Hans has no experience in this department,” said Erik softly.

“Yes, but Mr. Murphy is seven-and-twenty and should be expected to know his own mind.”

“In his defense, I highly doubt he’d ever had experience with royals prior to us.”

“Excuse me,” said Jules in a disbelieving manner, “you are aware that this fondness is reciprocated on both sides and have done nothing to dampen or end it?”

“Like your mother said, they’re not exactly doing anything.” Erik grinned and scratched Stjerne behind her ear. “Frankly, we believe nothing will come of it soon. Mr. Murphy is a quiet man—”

“Which you like,” commented his wife. “You favor him over his colleagues for this very reason.”

“I do,” he admitted sheepishly. “Mr. Murphy is a blessedly quiet and sensible man and will speedily lose interest in Hans because such a sensible man will not want a silly husband.”

Kristina bit her lip and smiled. _Look who’s talking,_ she thought fondly as he spoke about how sensibility and silliness could complement or antagonize themselves. It was a subject near and dear to his heart and that response disquieted their sons.

“Of all the things to fuss over, you decide to focus on silliness and sensibility?” she asked with a grin.

“Took the words right out of my mouth, Mama,” said Jules. He and his brother stared at their father with eyes wide as saucers.

“Do you not agree that Hans is too silly for Mr. Murphy?” inquired Erik.

“Hans isn’t as silly as you seem to think he is,” she said. “Too silly or not, it’s perfectly fine in my book. I accepted your proposal, did I not?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He stopped petting the cat. “I’m sensible.”

“What would bother a sensible man more? That his son is too silly to be attached to a Continental commoner or that his son is attached to a Continental commoner full stop?”

Erik opened his mouth, then closed it in contemplation.

“Not to interrupt your philosophical debate,” began Jules.

“But surely you do not mean to approve of this match should it develop into a proper courtship?” finished Klaus. “We are talking about Hans here, who as a child openly said he wanted to wed a brotherless princess. There is a massive rift between a brotherless princess and a reformed thief. I’ve yet to unshroud the mystery of this unforeseen affection of his part because for years he claimed to have very high standards. I find it hard to believe that some tall, half-blind man from across the sea passes his inspection.”

Kristina rested her head against her husband’s shoulder and smiled at her firstborn. While she felt guilty for recruiting his help in looking after the littler ones when he himself was a child – she feared she’d afflicted him with watchman’s nerves by having him babysit so often – she was joyous by his sincere concern for his brothers.

“Your apprehension is completely understandable, my darling,” she said. “It took your father a full month and a half to somewhat convince me of this match not being a fundamental evil to our family. Perhaps he can explain it himself.”

Erik crossed his legs and let the cat rest on his lap. “I’ve been reading histories, ours and foreign, and realized that the Southern Isles is unique to its neighbors in that we have had more native queens in the modern age than everyone else. The Romanovs seek their brides amongst the Germans – and frankly so does everyone else – and Agnarr found his wife heavens know where.”

“Your grandfather and father chose native women over foreign princesses; decisions deemed by Southern Islanders as a symbol of modernization,” added Kristina. “As much I despise the idea of soiling our blood, a union with a commoner might be seen in the same manner.”

“Our blood won’t be ruined because both Hans and Mr. Murphy are men,” said Erik matter-of-factly.

“Thank God for that.”

“A respectable commoner could’ve done the job,” said Jules, significantly calmer than when he first entered the Music Room, “however, Stabbington is foreign and his heritage is in all likelihood untraceable. I’d have understood if this modernizing commoner was a Hitran merchant.”

Klaus shifted in his seat, his big gray eyes tinted with unease, and said, “Do you not think it cruel?”

“Do we not think what cruel?” asked his mother.

“You said that Hans is fond of Mr. Murphy Stabbington, yes?”

“Correct.”

“And that Mr. Murphy seems to be partial himself?”

“Also correct.”

“He will come to his senses,” chimed in Erik. “He strikes me as the sort of man who will choose a spouse with more sense who is closer in age.”

Kristina rolled her eyes and gestured for her son to proceed.

“Would it not be a kindness to let them know of their mutual affection?”

“Klaus!” exclaimed his brother angrily. “That is the exact opposite of kindness because then Hans might bind himself to an unworthy man. The love will categorically perish within the first year of marriage and we’ll have to scheme up some plan to free our brother from the burdens that arise in unhappy unions.”

“No one will scheme anything diabolical,” said Kristina crossly. She was actually in silent agreement with her second; regardless, that was a bridge to burn if they get there. _Should the worst come to pass, I guess I must be grateful offing this one won’t spark international conflict._

Erik hummed beside her, hand on Stjerne’s belly and contemplation on his face. He nodded in resolution, turned to Klaus, and said, “It will do Hans good.”

“What?” said the boys in unison.

Meanwhile Kristina understood immediately what her husband had meant. Of course, she had the advantage of knowing Erik Westergaard forty-one years and being his wife for thirty-six – there was a decades-strong bond between two people who understand each other.

“You’re right,” she said, to the total confusion of their sons. She moved her attention to them after a minute of staring at her smiling husband. “It is no secret that your brother is awfully vain.”

Klaus closed his eyes and Jules snorted. They were aware.

“Hans is used to being the center of attention.” Kristina bit down a smile. “He works for it, that is undeniable, and he does have an air to him that proclaims ‘I know they will like me; everyone has always liked me’ that cannot fail to charm people. Nevertheless, this has made him arrogant as he now expects to receive everyone’s affection.

“Mr. Murphy has made it crystal clear that while he occasionally humors your brother, he neither flatters nor indulges him – something that must be driving poor Hansel up the wall as he questions why this man in particular isn’t completely charmed by him.” She pressed her hands together and grinned. “In brief, your brother’s vanity may be stifled if he is properly in love and hesitant in its return.” She laughed. “To think it’d be _you_ who would suggest that Hans ought to be skeptical of his charm!”

“What kind of father would I be if I do not correct his poorer traits?”

“You do realize,” said Jules, “that Grandfather Johannes will undo your work next time Hans visits him?”

“Shush!” Kristina shot her son a look before kissing her husband’s brow. “Everything will be alright. Hans will suffer a little but his character will improve, and maybe your father’s right and Mr. Murphy will find himself a handsome man or woman of suitable age and rank and sense, leaving your brother alone.”

“God, I hope that is what happens,” murmured Jules, his eyes closed.

“I can promise you that everything will be alright,” she said confidently. Kristina picked up her cross-stitching and observed it. “Jules, make yourself useful and help me adjust my hoop. Klaus, close the windows – I feel a chill.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Do you want me to fetch you a shawl?” inquired Klaus.

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” said Kristina.

As Klaus left the Music Room, Erik cracked his neck and rose from the sofa much to the cat’s displeasure. “This has been a productive chat.” He gazed at her fondly. “What shall I play, my dear?”

Kristina held his hand in her own and said, “Toccata and Fugue in D Minor please. You play it beautifully.”

He smiled. “As you wish, my dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are interested, these are the songs Erik plays in the chapter:
> 
> The merry tune while talking about cats (just imagine this rendered on a harp and you'll get the idea) - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r3sHfbR0vNU&list=PLMo3l4F2O6Mw9b7X4XSzrlRQLcAgFdDPQ&index=23&t=0s 
> 
> J. S. Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D minor - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPmKRtWta4E


	16. Chapter 16

“Surely you do not actually approve of this match.”

“Jules, dear, did you or did you not hear me speak about modernisation?”

“I should like to hear you repeat those words without Father strumming the harp nearby.” Jules leaned forward from his seat, elbows resting on his knees. “Mr. Murphy Stabbington is nobody, while House Westergaard has existed for approximately ten centuries. Even if Providence (and clever military strategies) did not place the crown on our head, even if we were destitute, we would still command respect by the virtue of our bloodline.

“I would much rather Hans weds either Cousin Alberta or Sonja. These matches won’t push forward our family’s agenda, but they will strengthen ties with your family; and I should think sonless Uncle Daven would happily name Hans his heir should he adopt his surname. ‘Johannes Randrup’ does not sound ill.”

“‘Johannes Randrup’ is an affront to your father,” said Kristina, tying a knot at the end of a green thread. “What does it say about His Majesty that his youngest son has willingly abandoned the royal surname in favour of that belonging to his less prestigious uncle? I’ll tell you what message it will send: that the king cannot provide for his child.”

“Less prestigious?” repeated Jules, the corner of his lips twitching to form a smile. “House Randrup is very respectable.”

“House Randrup spent its entire existence as a vassal to House Hammersmed.”

“Vassal or not, Uncle Daven has lands – beautiful, fertile lands – to his name and no son to inherit. Now,” said Jules, crossing his legs, “my father has given Hirsholmene and Sanna to Hans, but by becoming a Randrup he can become a proper house lords whereas currently he is fated to be the head of a cadet house.”

“A _royal_ cadet house,” said Kristina sternly. “Besides, Daven has three daughters and there is nothing in Southern Islander law that prohibits them from inheriting the lands.”

“But not the name, Mama.”

“Your cousins Ulrika and Maria have nice husbands, do they not?”

“Husbands who won’t change their surnames to continue the Randrup legacy. I have spoken to them, you know,” said Jules stubbornly. “It’s not uncommon for men to change their names to that of their wives in return for lands, and Father already has grandchildren with ‘Westergaard’ proudly written in the documents.”

“And you don’t think your brother would like children called ‘Westergaard’?”

Jules stared at her wide-eyed. He took a deep breath, then said, “Mother, if Hans and Mr. Murphy do become a pair then there will be no children altogether unless both of them are alright with infidelity.”

Kristina reached across the sofa to grab a pincushion. “Touché.”

“Personally, I believe that a union between Hans and Cousin Sonja will be most fair,” continued Jules. “It is advantageous for both sides: my brother will become a house lord in his own right – God knows he dreams of this – Klaus will not torment himself with horrid scenarios where Hans permanently leaves for Brussels or Berlin, etc., Sonja will not be forced out of her ancestral home while Uncle Daven shall rest easy knowing the lands will stay within House Randrup, relieving Aunt Selma of her guilt for failing to bear a son.”

Kristina went frigid. The notion of relieving her sister was a welcome one, but she disliked the method proposed by her son. Pregnancy had never been easy on Selma, who grew from a sickly girl to a frail woman, and delivering three healthy children was a fear the physicians would’ve never predicted – especially since they were convinced measles or consumption would take her before her twentieth birthday.

The problem was that the three little ones were all girls.

Mother had told them creating babies could take a few tries. Yet while Selma’s daughters had at least four years between them, most of her own children were born practically back-to-back. _Erik and I didn’t have to try to make Klaus,_ she remembered, _our first endeavour proved successful._

A terrible argument had once broken out in their house because Mama tried to coax her into giving one boy to her sister. Kristina had given birth to triplets, all boys as usual, and some brainless lady at court remarked how she gave a child to her brother when she delivered multiples. _It was my Elias they wanted,_ she thought bitterly.

“No,” said Kristina. Then she winced. Her tone had come out sharper than she intended.

“Mother?”

“No,” she repeated, softer, and proceeded to pack her needlework into a small bag. “I’ve had this exact conversation with your uncle and aunt. Although I am not diametrically opposed to the notion, your father and I must first discuss it at length.” She put her hand above his. “Jules, you’ve made your dislike of Mr. Murphy Stabbington, so please calm down and enjoy your shore leave.”

He rose from his seat to help her up from her own – her knees were not what they used to be. Opening the door, he walked beside her and said, “Believe me; I would love to kick back, relax, and smoke a pipe instead of wrecking my mind with solutions to inappropriate affections you yourself suspect of being reciprocated. Marriage is first and foremost a contract between two parties; and what does that man bring to the table?”

“I’ve said that to your father,” she admitted. “Do you know what he said in response?”

“That Hans is too silly for anyone above the age of twenty-five, which includes Mr. Murphy Stabbington?”

“Bingo!”

Jules exhaled deeply. “I love Father…”

“Oh, I sense a ‘yet’ or a ‘but’ coming.”

“…yet who is he? Who is this man? How could he have successfully kept the Southern Isles from active warfare in the past thirty years while also being the way he is?”

Kristina stifled a laugh. “His Majesty,” she said merrily, “had an exceedingly patient mother to whom he divulged all state affairs, and has a wife whose opinions he values.”

“Is this a hint to me, Mother, to heed my wife more?”

“So long as the opinions of your well-loved mama take precedence!” said she with a laugh. “Remember that it was me who bore you.”

They walked down the stairs – she held onto his arm, hoping to prevent him from speeding off into a pace – and passed a series of portraits peppering the wall by the staircase. Images of great royalty and aristocracy flanked them on both sides. There were large pictures of her father and father-in-law above the adjoining landing which depicted them in all their glory.

 _Papa certainly looks more lavish than King Albert._ She smiled at his image. Although House Hammersmed was about two hundred years younger than House Westergaard, it had become the wealthiest family on the Southern Isles by her thirteenth birthday. Papa sold the entirety of his French properties in the seventeen-eighties for a hefty price, then invested in multiple sectors back home and in Britain.

The increased wealth improved her fate as a royal bride. Money mattered. Her father had provided her with a dowry worthy of emperors, he promised to save some portions of his property to her younger sons if necessary. She was very lucky, and her thoughts wandered to a certain new bride.

“Jules, sweetheart,” she said as they walked aimlessly down the corridor, “have you any idea what Benedikta Dalgaard’s dowry is worth?”

He furrowed his brows, surprised by the question and whom it concerned. “Benedikte? No, I don’t think so,” he said. “Oluf never told me, though I should think her father will not supply her with one if…Lord Dalgaard had plans for her. I cannot see him giving her a dowry had she willingly eloped with that man.”

“The lieutenant commander is landed, is he not?”

“He is,” confirmed Jules. “He inherited a minor holding on Lindholm.”

 _Inherited. Past tense._ “What is the income from the lands?”

“Oluf wrote the man earns approximately six hundred kroner.”

“Ah,” was her immediate reply. “Six hundred kroner per annum?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” she began, releasing her grasp around him to enter a parlour. Once inside she headed to open the windows, “Benedikta is a frugal girl, I hear, and with her husband’s naval wages they can live decently. The lieutenant commander is young; she must push him to rise in station for better pay. In the meantime, Mrs. Benedikta will manage with fewer fine clothes and jewellery than her sister.”

Jules snorted. Hands flat on the windowsill, the spring breeze brushed his chestnut hair and sunlight reflected against the brass buttons of his frockcoat. “Two hundred and fifty kroner is just enough to maintain a single gentleman at an acceptable level of comfort, that is if the gentleman in question does not keep a horse or lands or indulge in any other expenses outside of his lodgings, clothes, and meals.

“Six hundred kroner,” he waxed on, “will sustain an economical pair, I agree. Yet who is to say that Miss Benedikta will not bear a baker’s dozen worth of children? Each daughter will require a dowry, each son some form of inheritance or at the very least a proper formal education so they could earn their living. Would you be able to keep a house in these conditions?”

Kristina burst out laughing, resting her head against his arm. “I would never be in such a position, dear,” she stated as a fact, because it was. “My father will not suffer a rebellious eldest daughter onto whom his aspirations were pinned.

“Plus, poverty could never suit me! I’ve seen my share of strapped lords and ladies, the picture of misery.” She reached for the silver cross round her neck. “Your father’s mother had a big heart; she showed great compassion towards poor women, noble and common. Scarcely had I become the kronprinsesse when your farmor took me along her charitable visits to those disgusting homes for single mothers. We also entertained impoverished ladies whose finances had sunken to depths where only divine intervention could rescue them”

Jules softened at the mention of his farmor. Unlike the younger boys, his memories of Queen Josefine and her tender love towards him were crisp.

“My mother-in-law,” she continued, “taught me that I love being the daughter of a fantastically rich lord, the wife of a generous husband, and the queen of a prosperous realm. Becoming kronprinsesse was an overwhelming event for a girl of nineteen years – there were _stars_ in my eyes upon seeing all the jewels and clothes and regalia that were attached to my new position as princess consort! My euphoria shot up through the roof when your farmor revealed everything that’ll be mine once I became queen.”

Jules wrapped an arm around her, embracing her tightly as a laugh rumbled inside his chest. “You should’ve expected nothing less. A queen of the Southern Isles can hardly be expected to live like a commoner.”

“That’s the most sensible thing I heard all day!”

He smiled. Then his contented disposition dampened a bit. “You must now see my point, Mother. Despite being a military man, I like my trappings, my belongings, and my handsome inheritance for which I thank you for ensuring.”

“You are very welcome.”

“While in the navy, I learned that I am capable of enduring savage conditions. Hans cannot. This is not intended as an insult, but like you he loves finer things in life. I sincerely believe he will commit regicide before degrading himself. God bless him, the boy knows precisely what constitutes his birth right.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” said Kristina. “Your fancier brothers have the sense in their heads to figure how to lessen their expenses without compromising their dignity and distinguish the necessary comforts of life should they be ever be tight on funds. Hans has an impeccable account book,” she added.

“So I hear.”

“Have him show it to you. It is neat and pretty.” Kristina placed a hand over his cheek. “If it makes you feel better, know that I plan to invite Lady Lund and her daughter to court to keep myself company. And,” she added coyly, “I would recommend you to refresh your memory on the February Act of Succession. You will find that it will wash all your fears away.”

Jules narrowed his eyes. Some found their so-called unnatural ghost grey colour disturbing, and no doubt lesser men would be cowed by his fierce glare. Kristina, however, merely stifled a laugh. That suspicious countenance of his was identical to his grimaces as a little boy, mistrustful of his ‘naughty’ mama because she snuck greens onto his plate.

***

The library in Konigsburg Palace was beautiful. Graceful storks were painted in the centre of the ceiling, and wise owls watched from their respective four corners. Gilded highlights, blue velvet curtains and chairs, golden chandeliers made the room fit for royalty. The library itself stored around ten percent of His Majesty’s books with the rest divided between different palaces in the city and kingdom at large.

Klaus tapped his fingers against the table and stared at his brother, who ran around the balconies designed to reach the higher shelves. Jules, in curiously high spirits, demanded that he accompany him to the library in search of law book.

While his brother searched for the tome, Klaus perused the lower shelves of the golden library and pulled out a signed first-edition copy of _Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded_ to flip through as he waited. Annotations and comments sprinkled on the sides as a testament to its being well-thumbed, bringing the crown prince great joy to see what his ancestors thought of the text.

The admiral gasped in excitement, and when Klaus looked up, he saw him proudly wave a book bound in black leather. Jules rushed to the corner and opened a door – discreetly tucked away as to not break the beauty of the room – and disappeared. Then he triumphantly emerged on the main floor and all but ran towards his brother.

Klaus peeked at the title, surprised to see that it was a record of Islander laws passed during the latter half of the eighteenth century. Useful though they were, most people – Jules included – found them dreadfully boring; however, his brother must’ve known what he wanted to see because he skimmed through the better part of the book.

“Pray tell” said Klaus gently, “for what exactly are you searching?”

“The February Act of Succession.”

“Why?” he demanded. If memory served him well, then that Act was passed specifically to—

“There!” said Jules, pointing at the title of the Act printed in bold black ink. A smile graced his face as he sighed with obvious relief, as if a boulder had been lifted from his shoulders. “Why you ask?” he laughed. “Because I’d like remind myself of our grandfather’s wisdom. I’ll have to find another law book discussing the Act in greater detail, but already these bullet points comfort me.”

“Have you, I don’t know, forgotten what a wedge it drove between Grandfather and his younger sister? It took her a decade to fully forgive him!”

“She forgot that she was a princess, and princesses do not consent to morganatic unions. He was half-common, and interclass matches were non-existent on the Southern Isles in their day,” said Jules with a satisfied grin. “This solves all of our problems, Klaus!” He waved the book in air. “Hans would never dare to violate this Act – the consequences frighten him too much.”

“He won’t suffer any consequences if Father approves,” said Klaus softly. “And if…something does occur between him and Mr. Murphy, they can’t exactly be subject to one of the key clauses of the act because it is impossible.”

“Unless adultery occurs.”

“ _Jules._ ”

“Which it never will,” added the admiral, snapping his fingers, “because they will never be in a position for it to take place. You can’t cheat if you’re single, and Hans is too proper of a man to have affairs…and the nanny did a fantastic job instilling the fear of God into him.” He folded his arms. “Anyway, Hans ought to get used to the feeling.”

Klaus stared at him; mouth slightly agape. Now, he was really anxious. “Get used to what feeling?” he asked. “Fear? What kind of fear? General or divine? The latter is a sign of high morality, the former alarms me.”

Book in hand, the admiral turned his back to the crown prince and headed to the staircase. “Tragically,” he began, then reappeared upstairs, “it is the former. I’ve had the most insightful conversation with Mother and have just the plan to put an end to Hans’ fancies.”

“Must you say it like that? It sounds like you’re going to kill him.”

“Sorry,” said Jules, who did not sound sorry at all.

“Never mind!” The crown prince raised his arms in agitation, then he put them down and said, “Would you get down from there? You are quite literally talking down to me.”

Jules paused, looked down the railings, and said, “Huh. I suppose I am. Hold on one second.” With that, he left for the staircase.

Klaus took a deep breath. Then he eyed a snuffbox on the table near the windows and, in a moment of weakness, went over and helped himself to a pinch. Tobacco products had negative effects on his health – the physicians even started to call cigarettes ‘coffin nails’ – but they calmed him down. Nothing soothed frayed nerves quite like smoking a pipe; snuff was the second-best option.

When his brother joined him on the ground floor, he also inhaled snuff and smiled widely.

“Could you please tell me what you’re planning to do?” asked Klaus, already feeling better.

“Frighten Hans.”

“Yes, I assumed you would,” said Klaus, vexed. “I must inform you that this scheme of yours is not one I approve of.”

“It’ll be fine.” Jules swung his arm over Klaus’ shoulders. “The responsibility will be mine to bear, not yours. It won’t be too bad, anyway. I will just drop a few remarks here and real-life examples there with a dash of over-exaggeration to solidify the impression to Hans; however, I will need a tiny favour from you.”

“Which is?”

“Please send Miss—Mrs. Benedikta flowers in my name,” said Jules, mouth in a tight disingenuous smile. “Captain Oluf mentioned she is fond of peonies, and every young bride is in want of a bouquet.”

Klaus regarded him. “This is a development,” he said eventually. “This morning you couldn’t stand the girl and now you wish to send her flowers. I’d normally be glad for the change of heart yet I suspect you’ve ulterior motives.”

“You are both right and wrong,” said Jules candidly. “I will not bother Mrs. Benedikta or her husband – though it is within my rights to speak ill of him for starting a new chapter by insulting his in-laws – but they’ve given me a golden example to use in my rhetoric, and for that I must thank them.”

***

Sipping on hot chocolate, Hans watched through the parlour window how Mr. Rider sauntered out of the palatial grounds. The beverage warmed his hands, recharged him after that horrid lesson so he could entertain Father later in the evening. He had told Mr. Rider of this, who found the whole notion silly. Apparently, the former thief never had to manage tempers beside his own.

Hans stared out the window till the man disappeared in the evening crowd. He’d like nothing better than to take a bath then write letters to his tutors for managing him as a child. Every second spent teaching Mr. Rider deepened his appreciation to every nurse, tutor, and governess on the Southern Isles. The sole silver lining to those two hours of torment was that it distracted him from troubling thoughts.

As the son of a very happy couple, Hans did not doubt the benefits of marriage for a single second. The positives included children (if it pleased God), constant companionship, loving care in sickness and old age, and a warm home. The Church of the Southern Isles also promoted matrimony as the preferred spiritual state, branding perpetual celibacy almost Catholic in nature. Nuptials were always welcome in their country, and Hans wished it for all his friends.

Except, it seemed, Mr. Murphy. Hans surprised himself by the strong distaste he felt towards the possibility; he had no want nor desire to even entertain such a terrible scenario.

 _It will not suit him,_ he thought. _Matrimony will simply not do for Mr. Murphy._ Why, a wedding band would deprive the good man of freedom to go wherever he liked and to choose his own society! And what will Hans do if the Mrs. Stabbington turned out to be quarrelsome by nature? What if her relatives force his dear friend to bend for every little trifle?

He had not even gotten to the question of children! Government census showed that Southern Islanders on average produced larger families than Northern Continentals; when will he find the time to spend with Mr. Murphy if the man is bound to the house by six children? It’s not like he can afford to hire a full-time nanny!

Hans ran a hand through his hair. This was quite the predicament. No, marriage will just not do for that fine man—

A knock on the door. “Who is it?” he asked.

“Me.”

He rolled his eyes then went across the room, turning the knob with a frown. “You ought to say your name, Gretka, not just ‘me’. They will not tolerate this at the Institute.”

“I’m not at the Institute yet,” she countered, hopping inside the parlour.

The young girl was dressed prettily in a canary yellow dress made of linen. It was cinched at the waist with a blue band and scalloped at the hem. Her head was covered by a white cap, though her long plaits still swung about with each hop.

“You look nice,” said Hans, closing the door. “You’ve been dressing better since this year started.”

“Farmor likes it when I look like a little lady,” said Gretka, pushing herself onto the windowsill where she sat most unlike a lady, “and Farfar said, and I quote, that ‘bastards won’t touch you if they see you’re respectable’.”

“Naturally.” He moved to stand beside her. It was getting dark outside. Mists were forming tonight, perhaps brought in by the sea. “You’d be barred from these halls if you were born to a disrespectable family. Spare me the updated delivery fees,” he quickly added when her face suddenly brightened. “I don’t need you running errands for me.”

“Oh, that is for another time,” she reassured in a chirpy voice. “Your Highness, I’ve come to you in hopes of a gift.”

Hans set the porcelain cup on the sill. “Do you want me to buy you that wooden sword for your birthday?”

“I’ve already got it!” she pronounced, grinning from ear to ear. “Farmor bought it because my dancing teacher praised me to the moon and back at the recital.”

“Congratulations!” Hans patted her head and smiled warmly. “What shall I get you then for your birthday? Girls don’t turn eleven every day.”

“I want that doll.” Gretka leaned back against the window. “She’s so beautiful; looks just like a queen, and I know what to expect of queens!”

Hans smiled. Children’s toys were all lovely, and most of his own were carefully stored inside a chest in the corner of his bedchamber. “A doll it is!” he promised his young friend.

Gretka clapped her hands in glee. Hopping down the windowsill, she spun around, then stomped her foot against the parquetry. “But wait!” she cried, alarmed. “That’s not what I had in mind for today!”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I was hoping Your Highness could give me a small picture of you.”

Hans blinked, and pointed at himself. “A picture of me?” he asked. “Why?”

“Farmor wants it,” she said. “She was polishing all the frames in the house and realized she didn’t have a likeness of you, which cannot stand. You know how she is.”

“Yes, I do,” said he in understanding. Hans had met Mrs. Anni Aagesdatter – a most ardent royalist. According to her granddaughter, there were portraits of three Westergaard kings in their living room and then some. “What kind would she like?”

“What kind have you got, Your Highness?”

“My father commissioned small watercolour likenesses of me to send to relatives on my twentieth birthday,” he said as he untied the curtains for the evening. “I should have a few spares in my room. Come, you can pick whichever you like best.”

The pair chatted on their way to the family wing. Gretka described the doll in greater detail before switching to complaining about her grandfather. The old man had been shaken by the recent crime in his neighbourhood, consequently worrying that his granddaughter might be harmed too.

Gretka’s biggest complaint was that she was forbidden from wandering about as she pleased after dark. She was now expected to be at home by sunset, and she said evenings there were a bore. Luckily, her grandparents caught wind of her lament and bought her books that she admitted to like – specifically the adventure ones.

No sooner had they entered his bedchamber than she flung herself onto his featherbed like a damsel in distress. Hans, meanwhile, went straight to his writing table and searched the drawers.

Gretka rolled over onto her back, lifting her legs in admiration. “My mattress is stuffed with cow’s hair.”

“At least it’s not straw.”

“Did you always sleep on a featherbed?”

“No,” said Hans, thumbing through the papers. “Upon my birth I received two pounds of fresh cotton to stuff the new mattress in my crib.”

Gretka rolled onto her belly, then propped up her chin against her palms. “I slept in-between my parents when I was born.” She raised her chest with her elbows. “Did you find them yet?”

“Be patient. I’m confident that they were in this drawer…” he removed the stack of envelopes and raised three textured sheets of paper. “Found them!”

Passing them to the girl, Hans smiled at how she carefully she inspected each one; like a jeweller examining rubies. Once she made her choice, she gingerly tucked the picture underneath her arm and returned the remaining two to him.

“Thank you so much, Your Highness,” said Gretka, satisfied. “Farmor will love it.”

“Give her my regards,” said Hans, escorting her to the threshold. “Mind you return home before the sky is dark. We don’t want to you be lost in the mists.”

“Or else Farfar will start nagging,” she sighed. “Have a nice evening!”

“You too, Gretka.”

With that she curtsied and ran down the hall, plaits fluttering like ribbons on a maypole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> History of economics and maths have never been my strong suit so all the numbers I've presented were gathered through a wild array of books and literary analyses #godspeed


	17. Chapter 17

Like ghosts, the mists evaporated when they entered the dimly lit inn. Spring evenings on the Southern Isles were cooler than in Corona, or at least there was more of the sea to sweep away the industrial smell and chill the air.

Murphy drank ale in the company of his brother, Rider, the innkeeper, and his temporary charge. Marthe and her baby daughter had joined them tonight after the inn had closed, and Elsa let all of them drink at a lower rate in exchange for stories. He glanced at the young woman. Steady income and charity improved her appearance – she was hardly the thin, destitute wench he had seen in winter.

A young chipper miss; no surprise Arvid had fallen head over heels for her.

Rider sat beside Marthe, eating fried squid and boasting to the innkeeper. “I’ll be ennobled in a jiffy,” he said confidently.

“Tha’ll be ennobled if th’ king wills it,” said Elsa, pouring ale into their mugs. “Or if a lady gives thee her hand, an’ that’s unlikely. Grand folk don’t like mixin’ their blue blood with th’ merchlings, let alone migrant workers like us.”

“Very true, Mrs.,” agreed Marthe as she bounced the baby on her lap. Her accent betrayed her origins – Corona City – and made her more legible than her fiancé’s mother. “The forewoman at my workshop has a niece working as a maid up on Viol Hill in one of ‘em fancy houses. I heard her master berated his son for dallying with common women instead of courting proper ladies.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that man but I’m different,” said Rider, back straight and chest puffed up in exaggerated pride. “Red’s teaching me manners and etiquette now! He’s a stickler for rules so I’ll be nobleman material in two ticks.”

“Red?” asked Seamus.

“Hans. The prince.”

Murphy choked on the ale. His smug-faced brother turned to him, then repeatedly smacked his back to help him breathe. Murphy pulled himself away from the reach, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt. The upside to wearing all black was that it took a trip to hell to really dirty his clothes.

“You wanted lessons in good manners?” said Seamus sceptically, rubbing circles on his brother’s back. “And His Highness agreed to teach you?”

Lazily leaning against the bar with a sleazy grin, Rider was arrogance itself. “We went to a see a sick baroness this morning,” he said. “Then I made him teach me how to behave nicely since apparently I was an embarrassment.”

“Oh, we know that.”

“Shut up.”

The company snickered at his expense, even Murphy let out a soft chuckle. He could see the little prince scrunch his nose in disgust before plastering on a tight smile in his mind’s eye.

“His Highness taught me how to bow and how to _correctly_ request for someone to introduce you to someone else,” continued Rider. He slapped his knee in defeat. “Did you know these aristos think it’s rude to just walk up to a person and start talking? How on earth do they make their precious acquaintances if they’re basically forbidden from making acquaintances?”

“That’s cause they’re all married to each other,” laughed Elsa as she dried cutlery with a rag. “Th’ queen’s sister was given to her cousin, one o’ th’ princes took a Weseltonian duchess to wife, an’ I know that th’ king’s grandmama was from there. It’s all connected!”

“The servants at the palace think so too,” said Seamus, cutting an apple into slices and offering them to Murphy and Marthe. “That kitchen girl – Karin – said that the housekeeper, the cook, and the butler are betting.”

Elsa leaned closer to him, blue eyes shining with interest. This was the sort of thing she was owed for the cheap alcohol. “Betting?” she repeated.

“About who will become Hans’ better half,” explained Seamus. “She said that the cook bet on a cousin called Alberta, the butler on a Cousin Sonja, and the housekeeper thinks it’ll be an Ostergaard girl.”

“If you fry me more squid for free,” said Rider, “then I’ll badger him for more information next time we meet. We’re going to have lessons once a week so I can definitely promise that.”

“I’m baffled as to how you got him to agree.”

“I bet he’s baffled, too. Red initially wanted nothing to do with me because I kept messing up the order of introduction, but I softened his heart and next week we will cover proper table etiquette.”

Rider picked up the book he had been carrying the entire evening and pushed it towards Seamus, who read loud the title, “ _Good Form for All Occasions_ by Mrs. Fernsen?”

“Hans told be to get this book at the shops and read two chapters of it,” said Rider. “This was the book his nursemaid used when he was little.” He sighed. “Hans kept prattling on about the differences between manners and etiquette, then he got tired and said this book explained it better.”

“Tha’rt a smart lad, after all,” said Elsa, much to Marthe’s amusement. “Lasses like polite menfolk, and tha’rt learnin’ thy manners from a prince no less! Thou mun hide thyself from Marthe’s girls lest they take thee for themselves.”

“No offence, but I still don’t get why His Highness would agree to teaching you,” said Marthe. “Doesn’t he have better things to do?”

“Oh, he said the exact same thing,” reassured Rider. “Not to worry though! I am like a river and His Highness is a rock – sooner or later he will accept my presence entirely because I will wear him down.”

The innkeeper whistled, impressed, and shot a look at Murphy. Although she’d given up telling him to ‘cool his manners’, he was sure she remained unconvinced. Tugging at her greying braid, she pointed at Rider with a move of the brows.

Murphy gave her no reaction out of spite.

She clicked her tongue. “Master Rider,” she began, still staring at him, “has His Highness expressed his ‘pinions on thy companions? What say th’ prince about Master Seamus an’ Master Murphy?”

“He doesn’t like me,” answered Seamus candidly. “The feeling’s mutual.”

“Why’s that?” asked Marthe at the same time as Murphy lightly smacked his brother. Hans might be a little vainglorious, true, but he was politeness itself.

“Good question, dearie,” said Elsa, who at this point had abandoned her cutlery. “Why are thou on foul terms with th’ prince? I like him.”

Seamus huffed. “You’ve never met him.”

“Don’t mean I can’t like him,” she argued, taking the baby into her arms and kissing it. “When I came to Hitra nigh twenty autumns past, I’d naught but the clothes on my back and a little boy – my Arvid – clingin’ to my skirts. Truth be told, I reckoned we were going’ to stave since my husband was yet to join us here.

“Then – and I remember this with the clarity o’ a freshwater stream – one November day all around the city th’ church bells were ringing an’ hollerin’.” She patted the baby and moved up and down the bar. “You’d’ve thought th’ bellringers had gone mad! I knew nothin’ o’ the local chimes back then, and it was thanks to the elated fishwives tha’ I understood what had set off the bells: a royal birth!”

“And you got bread?” chimed in Marthe excitedly. “Arvid swore that when somethin’ special happens here, the children and the poor get bread.”

“Just so, dearie!” Elsa smiled and balanced the baby on her hip. “I ne’er met th’ prince, yet by bein’ born when he was, he put bread on my table. Th’ clergymen fed the slums for a week after his birth, an’ th’ king pardoned three dozen petty criminals an’ protestin’ students in honour o’ his queen.”

“Why three dozen?” asked Rider.

“Th’ queen was six-an’-thirty when she delivered th’ boy.”

Seamus bit half an apple slice, looking thoughtful. “The Coronan king celebrated his daughter with floating lights. Prettier than pardoning criminals.”

“Floatin’ lights don’t feed folk.”

“Can’t argue with that.”

Elsa smirked in satisfaction. Murphy brought the mug to his lips, feeling the foam brush against the skin as he drank the ale. What a curious fact. It was funny, really; the little prince managed to pardon thirty-six souls by sliding down his mother’s thighs, then he saved Murphy and his from a certain death by appealing to his parents’ fondness for him.

He hoped to see Hans soon. Ever since that admiral brother returned from sea, he had been busy with one thing or another. He was a cheerful young man, and Murphy – who lacked cheer of his own – was happy just sitting next to him and listen to him talk about whatever happened to strike his fancy that day.

Hans spoke often about his family, particularly how he’d rather be a bachelor his whole life than leave them. For a while, Murphy found the thought comforting since that implied Hans would stay at Konigsburg and not run off with someone like that Olina girl.

Then his brother informed everyone about cousins, and cousins would not take him anywhere except to visit their own parents – Hans’ uncles and aunts. Murphy quaffed down the ale, hoping to drown the odd sensation in his chest with alcohol.

The little prince was a friend, a very good friend, and he never had to intimidate him into treating him well. In retrospect, Hans was probably acting out of instinct, but his kindness didn’t fade when he learned that Murphy was a commoner. A man with not a single drop of noble blood in him. 

He wiped the foam off his mouth, feeling green that Rider got to see Hans and powered his way into what were essentially private lessons. _Annoying little wasp,_ he thought crossly, and the crossness increased when the man resumed his boasting.

So what if Rider secured himself time alone with Hans? At least Murphy didn’t test princely patience with incessant jokes and low-brow references Hans would not understand. There were no frayed nerved when they were together, only smiles and high spirits.

***

Melted wax trickled down the sides of the tall candle inside the lamp hanging outside the house. Beside the moon, it was the only source of light on their street. Seamus blew it out, then shut the door after the three of them.

Unlike thieves and aristocrats – who stole or bought their candles – regular folk slept and woke with the sun. The mistress of the house was this sort of regular: she earned her keep by caring for the lodgings and locking the doors at night. She had no want or need to stay up till the small hours. Following one too many midnights of them banging at the front door to rouse her, she relented and gave them their own keys on the strict condition they lock the door after themselves or else. And since searching for flats in a city where you didn’t speak the local language was a bother, they obeyed the rule without exception.

Thieving skills proved helpful as they went up the stairs, avoiding creaky floorboards and the sleeping dog splayed at the landing. Once on the second floor, Murphy bid his brother good night. Softly pushing down the doorhandle, he immediately lit a tallow candle upon entry to place on the washstand.

He took off the outer layers of his clothes, setting them on a chair. Murphy then removed the patch covering his left eye, placed it on the table, and wiped himself down with a cool clean cloth.

The patch was uncomfortable. He had gotten used to it, but if he could he wouldn’t wear it. Why would he? It was itchy sometimes. It trapped sweat and grime and dust, leaving a ring of dirt behind it. The cord pressed into the skin, and since he refused to take it off in company it meant that he slept with it half the time.

Murphy reached for the small hand mirror, sighing as he inspected his face in the gloomy reflection. Contrary to popular belief, he _did_ have an eye beneath the patch; scarred, hazy, and unable to see the world properly. Dipping the cloth in the water, he wrung it before wiping his face clean and patting it dry with a linen handkerchief – courtesy of the housekeeper.

Daily washing was an unexpected – yet very welcome – luxury of renting a respectable place. Murphy didn’t mind sleeping in his clothes (hell, he didn’t mind sleeping on forest floors or in stables), but it was nice not having to marinate in sweat and dirt with dust in his hair.

The candlestick flickered as he picked it up in hand. With it lighting the way, he moved to uncover the blanket; however, he slowed his step when he saw a piece of paper lying on the pillow. There was a note on top. It read: _You are VERY welcome!!! Lots of love, Miss Gretka (P.S. delivery fee has gone up. You must give me 2 skillings, 4 pennings when we see each other again.)_ Several doodles also marked the note. There were coins, Gretka surrounded by sparkles, and Murphy holding Hans’ hand with hearts all around them.

He shook his head. The girl grew bolder by the hour. If she thought she could take money out his pocket with surprise deliveries and little drawings then he’d have to have a chat with the tiny tax collector.

But then Murphy turned over the paper and…Well. Maybe Miss Gretka Villumsdatter deserved her two skillings and four pennings. Maybe even three full skillings.

Hans sat with folded arms, eyes averted to the side and lips curved into a pleasant smile like he had just come up with a joke he knew for certain would have the crowd in stitches. His clothes were bright: a yellow coat with embroidered sleeves and collar, a green necktie, and a crisp, white shirt and gloves. The background was the lightest shade of blue. It looked like it was done in those watery paints, not the heavy oil ones used in most portraits he’d seen.

…Murphy liked it. A lot. He really—God, that girl earned her skillings, that was a fact. As disgruntled as he was by her childish promise at the time, for once he was glad she had an unruly mind that bent to none but her grandparents.

The picture was painted on thick paper, though wind and rain would still hurt it. There was also the issue of his neighbours. His brother and Rider didn’t care for privacy – they often loaned and borrowed stuff from each other – meaning he’d have to the hide the lovely image somewhere they cannot reach it.

Scanning the room was not only hard with just one candle, but also useless. Murphy didn’t own books or boxes to store the treasure, nor did he want to stick it underneath a loose floorboard where it would be trampled on during the day. He looked down at the picture again and traced Hans’ cheek with the pad of his thumb, sighing.

Although Seamus and Rider went into his room whenever they felt like it, they didn’t touch his clothes. So, reluctantly, Murphy grabbed his vest and a knife. The blade smoothly cut a rough pocket in the inner lining of the vest. He folded up the picture – careful to not crease the face – and gently placed it inside. _Let’s hope Marthe can stitch this up nicely._

The creases were unfortunate, yet on the bright side Murphy could now carry the picture with him everywhere and look at it whenever he liked. It was a pleasant thought, and maybe in the near future he could buy a nice little frame for it to hang on the wall.


	18. Chapter 18

Father spooned a heap of cherry jam into his porridge. Hans watched how the dark red substance plopped in the middle of the bowl, turning the oats pink as it was stirred with a silver spoon. As Easter festivities involved lots of heartier meals with hearty guests, it was the Queen’s will that her household eat lighter foods to prepare themselves for the feasting. The decision was met; not enthusiastically, mind you, but it was met with obedience by the servants and the king alike.

“Why aren’t you eating fish?” asked Hans. His father often replaced meats with the bounties of the sea when Mother thought he ate too much of it.

“The Queen fears that at this rate I will turn into one.”

Hans snorted. “We’ve a few days left till Easter, Father, and then you shall have all the cold cuts and honey sauce your heart desires.”

“True,” he conceded, “but do you think it a reverent approach to fasting? What is the point of resisting temptation when you know you can break it after a while?”

“One can think of it as purging,” said Hans, buttering a slice of toast. “Mother hid away my mysteries because she wants all my attention at the task at hand and not grisly murders. Saying that,” he smiled, “the second the clock strikes twelve to mark the end of Easter, I plan to binge every instalment missed. Think of poor Harald though: Mother bullied him into giving up chocolates for two months and his valet hadn’t known peace since then.”

Father let out a warm chuckle. “Well, if your brother can survive two scores’ worth of days without sweets in his system then we can make do without our mystery novels and cured ham.” An excited gleam sparkled in his eyes. “The Mohammedans do not consume pork full stop, and they are as healthy as any Christian man in this corner of the world.”

The comment was so very much in tune with his father’s learnings that Hans could not help his smile from broadening. Fun facts about Mohammedans were a nice change from paperwork and his brothers. Simpering, Hans bit into the toast with a loud crunch as his father’s speech expanded into medieval histories and – as was expected in this season – the Resurrection of Christ.

Fond memories of past Easter celebrations brought on a realisation: Mother was late. This was out of character for a woman who drilled into his head the importance of punctuality – Lord knew how angry she’d get when her guests were late by five minutes – so Hans inquired after her.

“Ah,” said Father, putting down the porcelain cup of tea. “Your mama is bound to her office finalising orders for the luncheon, and no amount of my persuasive skills could tempt her to breakfast with us.”

“Has something gone astray?”

The slight pause indicated a confirmation. Father gave the subtlest of nods, then quietly said, “Lady Skovgaard sent a letter declining the invitation on behalf of her husband, her son, and herself; the former appears to have developed gout and must be taken to a spa town for treatment.”

“Gout?” Hans was unconvinced. “Lord Skovgaard is leather bound to bone – his lot in not inclined to this affliction.”

“We must commend the man for seeking to alleviate the pain so quickly rather than ignoring his pains.” Father sounded sceptical as well. “Regardless, your clever mother has already found replacements! Thus, the table arrangements can be unchanged.”

“Oh? And who, pray tell, are these replacements?”

“Count Ostergaard,” said Father. “Then – and I do think you will be very pleased to hear this – your friend Margarethe and her mother!”

Hans started in surprise. “Margarethe will come to court? When?”

“In time to fill the spare seat at the luncheon,” answered the king unhelpfully.

“Why the Lunds in particular, may I ask?” he said, after waiting for a better response and receiving none. “I should’ve thought Mother would have seized the opportunity to place her kin in the empty spots.”

A curious, concerned expression passed briefly across his father’s face. Then, in a low voice, he said, “I was of the same opinion. But your mama has been, shall we say, prickly about any suggestions of inviting her sister to the capital. I’ve no idea why as they usually get along so very well. Nevertheless, I recommend that you mention neither your aunt or her daughters for the coming fortnight lest you desire to annoy your mother.”

“And if I do desire to annoy Mother?”

“I’d rather you did not,” said Father, tone almost pleading.

Hans laughed and nodded. This was quite a revelation! Mother was famously loved her birth family to bits, having secured them comforts and influence soon after ascending to queenship. Uncle Ivar enjoyed counselling the king, and Aunt Selma found her two elder daughters exceedingly promising matches by having a sister pull a few strings. _I wonder how she slighted Mother._

It did not matter, he decided. Siblings bicker. Hans took in the news relating to the new addition as easily as a breath of air, and smiled to himself. Margarethe was a very good friend. Her brothers were in the navy – which already earned them Jules’ good graces that he himself lacked these days – and her parents often took her to court when they children. They had played together often, and frankly it was refreshing to be in the company with the members of the fair sex not bound to him by blood.

Yes, Hans was glad that Margarethe was to come. Her presence will always be welcome, but he perhaps needed her more than ever.

“Will Lord Lund come as well?” he asked.

“No,” said Father, slicing a peach. “Nils is busy overseeing the construction of new merchant ships. He has sent his wife and daughter to us with his blessings.” Juice trickled down the corner of the mouth. He wiped it with a napkin before it reached the greying beard and continued, “Loretta Lund will attend to your mother so she might have more engaging conversations while at her fancywork. Margarethe will spend half her time with the women, and half with you.”

“Am I to be her escort then?” Hans stole a peach slice from his father, eating it whole before it could be taken. “We are not even cousins; what will people make of that?”

“You’re godsiblings,” said Father crossly, though the irritation was probably directed at the fruit thievery than the questions. “Would that I could send your female cousins with you, but your mother saw to theirs not visiting us this spring; and it is unlikely that Valentin will join us soon. How is he actually?”

“Dearest Valentin continues to be a hostage to parental whims.”

Before a response could have been made, their converse was cut short by the crown prince and lord admiral. “You are late,” said Hans in a critical tone as they took their seats. “It’s unlike you to be tardy, Jules.”

“Mistakes are bound to happen whether we like it or not,” he said, chomping down on a brioche.

The King of the Southern Isles, acting on instinct, promptly offered his elder sons cut fruit, and in return for this favour the men induced a lively conversation surrounding the palatial library – the favourite hall of their father. The subject of books cheered him, and he was proud to hear that they found whatever they searched for quickly as he took great pains to keep the collection orderly.

Although Hans revelled in literature as well, he was startled when the conversation when it sharply steered into rocky waters: the law of their lands. A contradictory mess. Yet that was to be expected of a state whose heart had beaten for centuries.

Still, who – excluding lawyers – spoke of political acts and the ramifications they’ve had on the legal system at breakfast in times of peace? Hans was as fond of discussing law as any other nobleman, but it was _breakfast._

From what had been uttered, he gathered that his siblings were in search for a specific law book and his mind racked itself with questions. Had Klaus been the one leading the conversation then he would not have a single query; his eldest brother was bound to his office on most days, and his office had two tall towers of records to aid him in his mission to clean up the Book of Laws of several centuries’ worth of additions, contradictions, accidental and intentional loopholes, asterisks, and countless clauses now obsolete in their modern world.

But the conversation was dictated by Jules. What crisis compelled _him_ to seek out records of eighteenth-century laws?

There was a pause in their conversation, and Hans leapt at the opportunity to inform his siblings of Margarethe’s coming to court. Their initial surprise was quickly replaced with gladness, especially on Jules’ side.

“Does Margarethe have suitors?” asked Klaus. “She is a very pretty girl with lands to her name. I should think men come in flocks to her.”

“None at the moment,” said Hans. “A minor German prince begged to have her hand in marriage back in February, but he was too poor; and you know what it is imperative for Lord Lund that his only daughter’s bridegroom is Islander blood through and through.” He stifled a laugh. “He was so very unhappy when his son courted that Spanish woman – you’d have thought she was born incomplete.”

Father smiled. “Young Lund ended the courtship though. For his parents’ sake.”

“I heard she was willing to convert to our faith for Young Lund,” retorted Hans.

“It matters not whether this Spaniard was Catholic or Lutheran,” said Jules sharply. “The will of the father overrides the wishes of the son.”

Hans gripped his temper. Then, smiling cheerfully, he said kindly, “Then why do you obey the sea’s calling more than our father’s?”

Jules frowned and reached for a fork, anger in every motion.

“Lesser nobility generally should not form unions with Continentals, I think,” chimed in Father, placing a hand on his second son’s shoulder. “It muddles things up in times of war, does it not?”

“It does indeed.” Jules stared at Hans, who for his part popped a blueberry into his mouth and smiled. “I do not believe it always wise for high nobility or royalty to wed foreigners as well, lest they be sucked into expensive wars.” He broke contact. “Father, will the Lund ladies stay with us at the palace or will they rent a house in the city?”

“The former.” Father patted his back and returned to porridge. “Your mother invited them to the city herself so it is only proper we lodge them. I imagine our Hans shall be very happy to have another young person at court.”

“And for that young person to be Margarethe!” Hans laughed. “I love you all, but—”

“But we are far too old for you,” finished the old man with an equally merry laugh. “It is a shame five years separate you and Maron; sixteen and fourteen with these two respectively. Thus, you must seek youthful throngs elsewhere – although you do not have issues on that front.”

“What can I say? I am a charmer!”

Across the table his eldest brother looked at him with amusement; Jules, with a spoon stuck in his mouth, hummed. “You can also seek Oline Ostergaard without it being inappropriate,” said the latter. “Margarethe will be glad to have another young noblewoman around.”

“Oh, that is doubtful.”

“Do they not get along?” asked Klaus.

“They must!” said Jules.

“Why?” demanded Hans. “Because they are both accomplished maidens of equal ranking?”

“Not equal – the Lunds are baronial stock and the Ostergaards are comital.”

“Equal by their shared noble background then. Anyway, Margarethe has taken a dislike to Oline, and she refuses to elaborate on the subject. Heavens help me, I’ve had an easier time coaxing conversation out of Mr. Murphy than squeezing a drop of information from her.”

“You mustn’t bother Mr. Murphy with idle conversation,” scolded Father. “A man of seven-and-twenty has more worthy things to do than humouring someone six years his junior.”

“Our conversations are not idle and I resent them being called so!” Hans shook his head, tutting in a snarky manner. “Dear, dear Father; you of all people ought to be familiar with the benefits of speaking with young people considering how often you want me to call on you.”

“Has it occurred to you that I want you near me because you’re my child?”

“I assume everyone wants me around them because I’m essentially a gold rush of a man,” said he cheerfully. “Do you not agree, Klaus?”

Klaus, always happy to sit quietly and listen to others, started at the question. A strong, weather-beaten hand stopped him from speaking, and now it was Jules’ turn chastising him. “You’ll become vainer than Emil at this rate! Is one narcissist not enough in our family? Do I have to smash your mirrors to keep you normal?”

“So, he’s a little vain,” said Father. “It hurts no one and—Jules, mind your sleeve.”

A dark spot bloomed on the crimson fabric where it grazed the soft butter. The admiral hissed, and roughly grabbed a napkin to clean himself with the help of his elder brother. His younger brother meanwhile bit down the self-satisfied grin forming on his face and spoke to his father about yesterday’s newspaper, casually agreeing to his brother’s request to see him after breakfast – he might as well be obedient after such an agreeable morning.

***

For the better half of his life, Murphy Stabbington had firmly believed that pictures were silly. His parents were gone and no pictures would bring them back, and if he ever missed his brother then he could peer at his reflection on water to remind himself of his appearance. Besides, he thought people should remember the faces of their loved ones without the need for pictures.

Then – in what was becoming a theme these days – Hans introduced him to lovely little novelties and poorly hid his indignation when Murphy shrugged them off as trivial. They were trivial, of course they were, but a part of him purposefully annoyed the prince just to see him take a deep breath and explain the purpose of this-and-that for the third time, all the while masking his sense of superiority.

Murphy chuckled. Hans was very good at toeing between the lines. The careful questions and delicate turns of phrases must have been his way of testing the waters, to see where his friend drew the line between a nobleman’s curiosity and condescension.

Which was why he was a bit…he did not want to petty but, well, Murphy was a bit annoyed when Hans’ presence waned. Religious holidays brought with themselves an increase in workload, as he was told, and the little prince had people to visit, letters to write, servants to manage, family to entertain, etc. Most of these tasks flew over Murphy’s head whether it was because of his (thankful) exclusion of court politics or his quiet nature – it didn’t matter. The point was that His Highness was hard to catch these days, and having a small picture of him helped when loneliness struck.

The door to the study flew open. Murphy turned his head expecting to see the captain of the guards, and stiffened when instead of a lean moustachioed gentleman in his forties was a lady in a pale blue gown and bonnet, clutching a navy-blue shawl embroidered with silver stars. She paused her confident step at the sight of him and, lifting her face, revealed herself to be the queen.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded. 

“I—”

“The captain will be late,” she said, walking past him to the table. Keys hung from an iron hoop attached to a chain that wrapped round her waist like a belt; she picked one and used it to open a table drawer and went through the papers. “A baroness addressed a complaint letter to him about your friend, so the poor man must smooth that bump first.”

“What should I do then?” Murphy sized up the fine shawl – the material seemed to be too heavy for the indoors. “Are you going somewhere?”

His tone, he guessed, was too sharp for her taste. The queen narrowed her grey eyes, though she did not ignore him like she could have. “His Majesty and I will spend the day in the country.” A smile ghosted on her lips. “You might’ve noticed the business of the palace – it is as if someone whacked a beehive with a stick – and in my preparations for Easter I’ve somewhat neglected my husband.

“I would have neglected him further had Hans not volunteered to prepare quarters for the Lund women,” she continued. Lifting a hefty stack of papers, she hit them against the desk to straight them then clasped them between her arm and chest. “As for you, young man, tell me this: how proficient are you at peeling vegetables?” She did not wait for his answer. “Go help the kitchens. Two girls fell ill and Cook will appreciate every pair of able hands.”

The ruffles of her skirts fluttered in the flurry of her movements. Her Majesty came in as quickly as she left, leaving Murphy by himself amidst the worn oaken furniture. Lund women occupied his mind. The Lund women! Who the hell were they? Murphy chewed on the lining of his cheek with unpleasant curiosity and forcefully shut the door behind him.

How lucky for him that Her Majesty sent him to the kitchens. The servants there heard plenty from aristos and lowborns alike; they can clue him in on this.

True to the queen’s words, Cook was happy to see him and happier still to impose him a sack of potatoes. She ordered him to peel at least four kilograms before disappearing into the hallway. “Mrs. is cranky today,” said Karin, the kitchen maid. She salted ice beside him. “The housekeeper went on a rampage and dear old Cook bore the brunt of it.”

Murphy glanced at her.

Karin, probably because of the rare show of attention, winked and tucked a strawberry lock of hair into the cap. “One o’ the scullery maids brought in scarlet fever and hid it. Another girl got infected; the tell-tale rash appeared this morning. Mrs. Housekeeper almost snapped Cook’s neck since that scullery maid is a distant cousin to her. Everything has to be boil-washed for safety. And I mean everything! The poor girls at the laundry are in for it this week.”

Sounds and smells of cookery filled the quiet that followed. Kettles whistled, water bubbled, salted fish sizzled in hot pans, and Karin commanded her subordinates while churning a sorbetière. The ice around it made a crinkling noise with each turn of the metal container, and occasionally the maid would remove the lid and whisk the contents with a long wooden spoon.

“What flavour?”

“What?” Karin huffed and flashed a lop-sided grin. “He speaks? Hold on, I must call Cook here because this is a momentous day and—come on! Don’t make that face. I’m just joking!”

Murphy shook his head, tossing a curl of potato peel at her.

She caught it and threw it at the rubbish bin. “Sixteen of my five-and-twenty years have been spent in kitchens,” said Karin. “Peels don’t frighten me none. And if you must know then I’m making apricot ice for the top table. With the rapidly warming weather, I’ll have to make ices every day; and Her Majesty invited Lady Lund! My best friend works as an in-between maid at their house and she tells me that the Lunds serve at least two types of ices at their dinners.” She leaned close to him and whispered, “I hope neither Queen nor Cook will get any ideas from them.”

The young woman then started to explain Murphy what a pain it was to deal with the ice men and how she dreaded when it was her turn to march to the market to buy ice. Karin dropped the wooden spoon when he asked her about the Lunds.

“You should already understand what sort of people they are by the fact that they serve two types of ices nightly throughout the hot months,” she complained.

“Well, I don’t.”

“Should’ve entered domestic service. Stabler than thieving, I bet.”

Murphy plopped a naked potato in a bowl of water. “And how’re you liking making ices all day long?”

Karin gave him a very unimpressed stare.

“The Lunds?” he demanded.

“What do you want to know about them?” she asked eventually.

“What sort of folk they are.”

She sighed. As she opened her mouth to speak, anger flashed across her face and she barked at a fourteen-year-old girl to hurry it up with the washing. “The Lunds,” she said afterwards, still glaring at her junior, “are of the old stock. I’m told they were ecstatic that the late King Albert and our dear King Erik took island women to wives instead of foreign princesses; Lord Nils – he’s the head of the house – publicly disapproved of Count Ostergaard’s wife.”

“Wife?”

“Countess Ostergaard is a Russian émigré,” said Karin, as if it was obvious. “I’ve heard you met her daughter. What was her name?”

“Alina.”

“It’s Oline, you fool.” She smacked his shoulder. “She has an older sister called Xenia. What Southern Islander calls their daughter _Xenia_?”

Murphy could tell by the heaviness thrown on the final word that Karin thought it was a ridiculous name for an island countess. Funnier though were the assents murmured by the scullery maids and kitchen boys. The girl whom Karin had scolded quipped something in Southern Islander, sending an uproar in the little crowd.

“Um, why are they invited in the first place?” he asked.

Karin shrugged. “Not our place to question our betters, though if I understand Cook’s hints correctly then it is to keep company to the queen and her youngest son.”

“Lady Lund will fill the spot left empty by Lady Reenberg,” said another kitchen maid, taking the peeled potatoes from Murphy She was as skinny as Karin was buxom. “I suppose her daughter will remind His Highness that women exist. Perhaps she will be his bride!”

“But is Miss Lund highborn enough? Her father is a baron, and our prince is—well, he is a prince.”

“He is last-born.”

“A prince nonetheless.” Karin slowed her churning. “But you are right that our royal family is masculine; to think there was a time when royal women outnumbered the men.” She returned her attention to Murphy. “Miss Lund is kind to us servants, and she is easy to the eye. Her clothes are always so fine. I do feel like a right idiot when she speaks – in a good way though! Miss isn’t patronizing; she was just educated like a man.”

Murphy paused and blinked, knitting his brows. “Like a man?”

“You know: hard mathematics and whatever those Ancient Greek spouted.” Hands on her hips, Karin rolled her shoulders and cracked her neck. “Lord Nils and his lady believe in women’s education, or so we hear. But—” she dropped to her haunches and looked him in the eye— “aren’t you thick with His Highness? Ask him about Miss Lund and surely he will tell you.”

“And then you can tell us!” added the skinny maid.

Murphy floundered. Were he and Hans thick?

A kick from Karin shushed her colleague from any more jests. “Mind you,” she said, “the senior servants don’t like you very much because of it. It’s not appropriate. Regular guards and us serving folk are forbidden to talk in the presence of our masters, let alone have breakfasts with them.”

She grabbed the spoon, smacking it against the flat of her hand. “But I know you better than Lady Alberta, which automatically means I like you better,” she whispered. “I’ll warn you when the Lund women arrive; so, should something happen—” she wiggled her shoulders and smiled mysteriously— “that elevates you in society then I’ll gladly leave these kitchens to work at Hirsholmene or Sanna.”

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said flatly, though inside his chest he felt a strange giddiness. “But I’ll keep it mind.”

Karin bowed her head. “That is all I ask.”


	19. Chapter 19

A week following his kitchen duties, Murphy was sent to the Pearl Palace to change all the locks. The Royal Family had residences all over the country, and from what he heard from Hans the Pearl Palace was the favourite house of his grandmother the queen. Situated thirty-four kilometres south of the city, the residence included massive gardens and stone bridges and marble pavilions on its territory.

Not that he had the opportunity to stroll about the area to take in the splendour. Murphy and a minor guard spent the morning going room to room, seeing how easily locks could be picked and changing them under the keen eye of a chambermaid. It was a simple enough task, if one didn’t mind doing it over and over as the maid kindly told them there were more than a hundred rooms on the grounds.

At one o’clock, the guard argued with the maid to leave them be for an hour to lunch and to rest. The guardsman promptly skedaddled into the serving quarters – he apparently had a sweetheart working as a gardener here – and Murphy went to see the property. Karin packed him sandwiches in a paper bag that morning, and the weather was so fine he might as well eat outside.

Springtime was in all her glory here. Thirty-four kilometres separated it from smoky factories, dirty ports, the hustle and bustle of urbanites going about their day. Here neatly trimmed trees and flowerbeds blooming in every shade lined a path running straight from the main entrance of the palace. A fountain bubbled in the distance; statues flanked the trail to it, most of whom were half-naked. _With the amount of flesh that they’re showing you’d think the aristos wouldn’t be so flustered by everything._

Their stony siblings also stood in the middle of the round fountain, well-formed and armed. A circle of benches surrounded the gods. Murphy sat down on one, opened the bag, and bit into a pork sandwich.

It was a warm, soft day. Clouds mottled the blue sky, sparrows sung as if they were in a church choir, fountain water splashed like a wild brook. From his bench Murphy sized up the Pearl Palace behind him, and wondered why the Royal Family did not permanently live there. It was quieter, for once, and the elderly king could have as many peaceful walks with his queen as he wanted without calling for a carriage each time.

But who was he to tell His Majesty what to do?

Murphy focused on lunch and – after looking over his shoulder – stealthily pulled out the dear portrait. Although Marthe had been upset that he refused to show her the picture, she had sewn him a clean pocket high enough where she promised it would not crinkle. The image already suffered from the creases he himself made, but better a creased image than no image at all.

Amidst the sound of falling, splashing water, three large dogs caught him by surprise when they ran up to him and stole his lunch bag. The largest ripped it in half, gobbling up a sandwich, and its friends attacked the bread roll.

He reached out an arm to pet the cream-coloured hound, but then he saw Hans approach him and frozen.

The little prince wore a dark blue coat reaching below the knees. Nine silver buttons gleamed down his chest, the stiff upright collar was embroidered with silver thread. Polished black leather boots, a slender rapier on the side, and crisp white gloves were all very Hans-like. Yet something felt off.

Realising that the prince was this close to seeing the picture in his hand, Murphy tucked it back into his pocket as quickly as he could without injuring it. “Afternoon,” he said, offering a small smile.

Hans faltered in his step before returning the gesture, wider and brighter. “Good afternoon to you as well, Mr. Murphy. I see the hounds have beaten me to you.” Instead of sitting beside Murphy as was his custom, the prince calmly ordered the dogs to behave and sighed at their deafness. “How do you do, sir? What business have you at the Pearl Palace? Did my mother send you here?”

“Sit and I’ll tell you,” he said, once it became clear that the other had no intention of joining him on the bench. It had been a small relief when he complied and watched him expectantly, all curiosity. It had been a while since he had last seen the prince without servants or ladies or little girls fluttering around him. Thus, rather unhappily but also strangely pleased, Murphy resolved to…initiate a conversation.

He hated every second of it. His words were choppy, the intonation rough, and his speech was marked with stumbles or awkward gaps of silence. _Maybe,_ Murphy thought, _maybe I ought to give Rider some credit for speaking nonstop in front of everyone._ Few others matched the man in wittiness, and so when Hans – who successfully shamed Rider into bettering his manners – watched him with pure excitement, he felt less coarse.

“You used my turn of phrase, did you realise?” he asked happily. “Five months I’ve had the pleasure of your acquaintanceship and I don’t think you’ve ever said ‘in theory’ till today. Have you finally started to adopt my mannerisms as I’ve adopted your views?”

“Don’t think you’ve adopted anything of mine,” mumbled Murphy, feeling blood rush to his cheeks.

“Don’t be ridiculous! Just because you do not see the effects of it does not mean it is not true.” Though it was a form of rebuke, there was far too much good nature in the tone for it be scalding. “I hope Mr. Seamus will not be cross with me for influencing your speech.”

“He won’t mind.” Murphy scratched behind the ear of a white dog whose eyes and ears were blacker than a bandit. “What uniform you’re wearing?”

“Is it so apparent that it is a uniform?”

“Mhm.”

Hans rubbed his jaw. “There was an event hosted by a naval wife. Jules insisted I come with him, and I cannot avoid my uniform in his presence.” He chuckled. “Being exempt from standard court uniform spoiled me.”

“Is the sword…?”

“It’s part of the uniform as well, yes.” Winking, he added, I’ve forgotten how fond ladies are of them.”

Murphy frowned faintly.

“While we are on the subject of ladies,” continued the prince, petting the dogs whose lolling tongues and gleaming eyes made up for the dust rising from their beating tails, “my friend will come to court next week. Her name is Margarethe Lund Nilsdatter. Hers is a most excellent character, so I hope you will like her.”

Kitchen gossip filled him in on what to expect of this Miss Lund, but Murphy still asked, “Your friend is a woman?” and snorted at the offended expression. “Where’s that beanpole?”

“ _Valentin_ is required at home,” said Hans. “And is it so odd that my friend is a woman? I do talk to the fair sex despite having grown up amongst men.” The tips of his ears went the lightest shade of pink. He reckoned it would’ve gone unnoticed by most folk, but Murphy himself had ginger hair and skin reddening for whatever reasons taught him to note the colouring.

_And this has nothing to do with you basically studying him from top to toe?_ he heard Seamus say in his head. Then, a strong girlish voice added, _Didn’t you tell the innkeeper that it meant His Highness was really annoyed?_

A gentle hand on arm grounded him. Murphy looked at Hans, who smirked. “She reminds me of you a bit.”

“Of me?” he repeated, incredulous. A noblewoman reminded Hans of him? The ladies he had seen at court, including the fearsome queen, were all elegant roses and colourful tulips. They did fancy needlework, sang and danced, tugged at the invisible strings attached to their husbands; thieves like himself were rough around the edges with no time for subtle intrigue. What could he have in common with a _lady_? A maiden, really, since the kitchen folk emphasised her being unwed.

“You’re both quiet!” said Hans, clapping his hands and stunning Murphy. “Reserved, quiet people who secretly think I read too much cheap literature.”

“That’s not true,” said Murphy. “I’m open about that.”

“Shush!” He leaned back. “It may cheap, but writing mysteries is harder than you two credit it. Oh, I bet Margarethe will be as vexed by Mr. Rider as you are.”

Something about the way he said ‘Mr. Rider’ bothered Murphy. Last they’d spoken, Hans had no scruples about sharing his distaste for the men. Now there was if not a lacing then a hint of fondness. “Does Rider not vex you then? Not even during those lessons of yours?” he demanded, almost bitterly.

No sooner had he opened his mouth than he wished he was the mute everyone believed him to be. Hans would have—he was sure that Hans would’ve told him about the lessons in due time, but it grated Murphy’s nerves that Rider of all people just dropped into the royal rooms whenever he liked and saw the prince oftener than Murphy.

Unlike his queenly mother or the virago of a housekeeper, both of whom would have chastised him like a disobedient dog, the prince sat there all started. “I’m growing to tolerate him,” he said flatly. “He’s not ideal company, of course not, but he is company and one learns to adjust. Anyway,” he frowned, “does Mr. Rider tell everyone about our lessons? Who else knows about them?”

_That…is not what I expected you to focus on._ Murphy cracked a knuckle and said, “My brother, a poor seamstress, and that innkeeper.”

“And that’s it?”

“Think so.”

“Good.” He sighed. “That’s good.”

An uneasy silence lingered in the air. Murphy didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t his area of expertise. Pleasant conversations and stomping down awkward gaps in chit-chats were where Hans excelled – it was unsettling that this time he just let it fester quicker than an open wound.

“Next Sunday,” started Murphy, “do you want to go to the Field?”

“Oh, I cannot.” Hans hurled a stick for the dogs to chase. “It’ll be Easter, remember? My family and I have duties to attend to on that day alongside church.”

“What about the Wednesday after?”

Hans smiled faintly. “Margarethe will be here by then. Will it be alright if I bring her and Lady Oline Ostergaard, too?”

“Why?”

“It’s inappropriate for a single woman to be in the company of two men,” he explained. “Oline is a joy, and Margarethe isn’t as loud as her so I think you’ll like her in two ticks.”

“But why bring them in the first place?”

“Margarethe and her mother have been invited to the palace by the queen. It’d be impolite if I traipsed about the city instead of entertaining her.” He turned away, eyes cast down. “Bringing them with us would be a compromise. Either we bring them along, or I will be expected to be with Margarethe at soirees or gardens; and that’d be unfair to you.”

Before Murphy could—what? Disagree? Hans was correct that he would dislike being at those fancy parties; regardless, before he could speak, the dogs returned with the slobbered-up stick and demanded their master’s attention. Hans laughed, pushing away their wet faces with a gloved hand. He hurriedly moved away from them, avoiding their saliva, and leaned against the older man.

Despite knowing that it was an unknowing action, Murphy had to admit that the warmth of the touch was nice.

Hans laughed and laughed, then he wrested the stick from them and threw it over their heads. “They love me, they do,” said he with a smile. “I’ve known them since they were pups.” Something lit up on his face, and he placed a hand on Murphy’s shoulder. “My good friend, would you like a kitten?”

“I’m…sorry?”

“A kitten,” he repeated. “A palatial cat will deliver a litter soon, and the kittens will need a home in due time as we’ve decided we cannot keep all of them at Konigsburg Palace. A kitten is just what your flat on Maalundsgade wants! Once it grows a bit it can hunt rodents for you. What do you say?”

There was far too much expectation on Hans’ face for him to say no. Well, Murphy had a hard time denying the man anything. “I’ll think about it,” he said, even offering a smile.

“Please do! And—oh dear God, what are they eating over there?”

A dead sparrow was the answer. Hans shooed them off, and Murphy smirked at how he told the dogs that they will get sick if they eat it and that he will give them ‘tasties from the kitchen’ in return for their cooperation.

They returned to the palace together. Murphy listened to Hans complain about his brothers, the servants, and the prince in turn asked many, many questions about his time in the kitchens. “Haven’t you ever been in the kitchens?”

“Of course, I’ve been in the kitchens!” He raised up his chin. “I never—never mind.”

Murphy raised a brow. Hans reddened.

“We have servants,” he said. “They get quite upset when the masters come down to help them – it’s an insult to their skills. Even if it was not, I’ve never worked in the kitchens.” He quickly added, “For your information, I do know how to cook a few dishes.”

The dogs were back. Murphy took the stick this time and hurled it as far as he could; the hounds shot after it like three bullets. The awkwardness, the distanced behaviour, the vexations were all water under the bridge when His Highness clapped his hands in glee, praising the pets for their speed and Murphy for his ‘Herculean abilities’.

Before they parted ways, Hans repeated his hopes that Murphy will like his friend; and even though he didn’t think he would, he was willing to be patient for the prince’s sake. If the little prince liked her this much, then she had to be leagues better than Rider. _She is quiet,_ he thought reassuringly, and waved goodbye to his friend.

***

Porcelain cups, satin gloves, shimmering soirees, bubbling champagne – that was the world to which Hans was born and where he was determined to meet his end. Within his veins flowed a bloodline so ancient that he’d no idea where to begin the history of his family. So, the past sennight had brought troubling tidings to himself and his station.

At first, he had been pleased – delighted even! – when Jules cooled his blunt dislike of Mr. Murphy. Harmony ought to reign over their palace, and Hans learned long ago that his life was much easier when his brothers were not agitated by him or his associates. God bless them, their meddlesome fingers were a thorn in his social life. One could argue it was their right as his seniors, but Hans did not care much for it.

What he cared for were appearances, never mind how shallow it sounded. Songs and stories might praise those who discarded these ‘worldly’ values for holier aspirations, but Hans knew that wealth and status mattered. The unsavoury truth was that the lives of men were decided by their names. Hans was a Westergaard. His upbringing, station, title, comforts, and responsibilities were tied directly to his being the lawful son of a Westergaard king. Bastards were further proof of that; depending on the parentage, they could have just as much noble blood as their trueborn siblings but laws of marriage deprived them of a name, therefore the right to inherit.

On the flip side, Mr. Murphy was a Stabbington and there were no connections to that name. Hans had looked! He went through records of Coronan merchants that had come to their ports – the name sounded too common for aristocracy – and there were no signs of relation. The lack of importance, of meaning was what left his dear friend to fend for himself with no one caring for him save his own brother.

The dread that filled him after breakfast had been incredible. After receiving such wonderful news relating to his friend’s arrival, Hans entered the study with a smile on his face and laughter dancing on his tongue. Then, swifter than a sparrow, his brother smashed his confident happiness by saying:

“You’ve a quick wit so I’ve all the faith in the world that you will manage on three hundred kroner for a year. Have you considered which of the learned professions you will pursue? I doubt you’ll be a doctor – it’s far too intimate – but I bet you’d make a good lawyer.”

Hans had stared at him in disbelief. “A lawyer? Me?” he snorted. “I know I’ve an excellent grasp on it when my mind is settled, but it’s not proper for us. What’re you talking about? Have you a fever?”

“I don’t have a fever!” Jules had smacked his hand away. “I speak to you as a concerned older brother. Try as I may, you’re determined to be associated with Mr. Murphy Stabbington and there is talk.” He stood up from the upholstered chair and opened the windows. It was a fine day.

“Talk?”

“Talk of courtship,” he said, tying the sheer curtains back. “And when there is talk of courtship, the topic of matrimony is around. The kitchen servants have been a-flutter with how close you are to that man.” Fist on his hips, Jules sized him up and frowned. “You will do well to sell your fabrics.”

Hans coughed. “ _Sell_ them? My clothes, you mean?” He quickly locked the door and snapped. “You must have a very high fever to suggest such a thing. And there is no courtship between us! We’re just friends! Why cannot we just be friends?”

“You’re a prince.” Jules sounded confused. “We don’t have friends without it being political. Do you not remember how Mother fought with Father’s advisers when they complained bitterly how one of her ladies’ husbands was a member of the opposition? I suppose you were very small then… It does not matter. Klaus and I’ve decided it was best to remind you of the clauses in the February Act of Succession.”

“I know the points,” snapped Hans. He had memorised them – they’ve impressed him greatly as a child.

Jules poured him a glass of water, then casually asked if he remembered that the February Act – alongside being cut off from the line of the succession – also seized the violator’s inheritance and earnings which came with it. 

Reality dawned on Hans in a steady drip-drip-drip. He had been so busy lately that he’d paid no mind to the servants that saw him breakfast with Mr. Murphy, nor how they supplied him with the foods which he sent to the man via Gretka. Servants, unfortunately, have eyes and ears and mouth; he’d no doubt they put theirs to good use to gossip how much time he spent with the foreign, common, formerly criminal Mr. Murphy.

A part of him was happy to have been blind as an old dog and deaf as a crone. Time passed so very pleasantly around Mr. Murphy, so much so that he somehow forgot to mind himself around the palace. Hans had grown fond of the man, no matter how frustrating his silence was or his phobic avoidance of brightly-dyed cloths. If anything, the constant wearing of black had its charms.

There were other, smaller details he had memorised about Mr. Murphy. Nothing remarkable, really, simply little habits he learned in their time together. Such as—

No. This is exactly why Jules felt the need to have that conversation. It had been _exhausting_ drilling into his brother’s head that there was no courtship between them. Jules eventually concurred, but Hans thought it was simply to escape the study rather than actual agreement.

Frankly, the quickest way to crush those assumptions would be to sever the friendship entirely. It was an upsetting solution, to be sure; yet what other choice did he have? He could not sever it too quickly – that’d elicit even more whispers – but neither could he cultivate their friendship with a gardener’s hand. The alternative to severing was to suffer slander.

That was what he had decided. Hans told himself a hundred times that it would be fast, clean, and very, very painful to himself and (he selfishly hoped) to his friend. This morning he had taken a bath, polished his nails, put on his crisp naval uniform with the goal that he will send Mr. Murphy a courteous letter announcing his desire to end their acquaintanceship. It was well within his rights to do so, whether the man liked it or not.

But then Hans decided to travel to the Pearl Palace, where his goal promptly crumbled like a graham cracker. Had he known of Mr. Murphy’s whereabout then he would have haunted some other royal residence. Well, he had not known, and subsequently he suffered the consequences of seeing Mr. Murphy and feeling his earlier resolve break.

Worse yet was when the dear man had spoken to him first, as if he felt the great uneasiness that weighed on Hans since his talk with Jules. That was it. Scarcely had Hans returned home than he ripped the letter apart. The scraps of it lay scattered on the floor. He’d have to dispose of it properly later, lest some chambermaid was good at puzzles.

“Oh, what am I going to do?” Hans paced around his room. It was dark. Night had settled. Three taper candles burned on his writing table, and, in the gloom, he picked up the letter from Margarethe Lund and sighed. “My dear friend, you will rightfully think me an idiot once I confide in you.”


End file.
